


We All Stagger On

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Car Chase, Christmas Party, Courage, F/M, Family Issues, Father issues, Fluff, Hate mail, Holmes brothers working together, Humour, Isolation, Mental Health Issues, Multi, New Year, Panic Attack, Peril, Strong Language, Verbal Abuse, Winter, festive references, mild political references, past interfering with present, perceptions, protector - Freeform, scotch, security detail, set before the show, some violence, threat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 66,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13057176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: When you start working for Mycroft, he, Anthea and you make a strange team, but somehow it works. Will it still do so when a threat rears its ugly head and Mycroft, Anthea and you have to rely on each other all the more? Or will the team be torn apart? Will things ever slow down enough at work for Mycroft to realise his feelings for you? Will you get over your reluctance to act on your own feelings?





	1. The Messages

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you have a great time over the festive season and wish you all a very happy New Year. :) Thank you for your support this year. :)

**October 2002**

 

A set of double doors slam behind Mycroft Holmes-a thirty-two-year-old man with auburn hair, a perpetually long face and blue eyes-of their own accord, as he walks down in his three-piece suit to the group of partitioned offices where all the assistants for the important men in government like himself carry out their daily tasks, moving from their bolt holes to the offices of their bosses that lay all around them. His own working space is located right at the far end of the corridor, and, as he gets closer he can hear the low buzzing sound of technology, the ticking sound of the clock and smell that stale scent that always lingers after a very heavy day of people sweating and eating in the same office space. His nose wrinkles and he stops, looking through an entranceway to where his dark haired secretary Anthea is just finishing something up on the computer, the soft glow of two lamps and computers serving as the only thing, which illuminate her. Thirty-years-old her hair is up in a bun today and as usual she’s in smart black and white attire. He watches as she hits the save button with a manicured fingernail and logs out, making to shut down the computer as she stands. It is then, and just as she is slipping into her dark three quarter length coat, that she notices Mycroft. She frowns and hesitates for a moment, before she puts on her coat all the more defiantly. You, twenty-six, and the only other assistant who’s still left working in the office, snigger a little from your spot opposite her. Your desk as usual is a mess. Folders jut out from a holder by the computer and look in danger of being knocked to the dusty floor if someone should so much as brush against them. Due to your show of amusement Anthea gives you a bit of a dark look, something that Mycroft, in a rare show of unity, joins her in. 

 

“I'm afraid that you’re going to have to stay a bit longer,” he informs Anthea, flourishing his papers, “There’s been a bit of an international misfortune”-both women wonder exactly what that means now-“I'm going to have to have you on hand to take notes from the phone calls I’ll be making to smooth it all over.” He starts to turn away then as if the matter is all settled. _But-_

 

“Sir I’d arranged to”- Anthea interjects, glancing at the clock at the far end, which states that it’s just gone half-past eight. 

 

“Whatever ideas that you’ve got lined up to try and make this Friday evening Heaven will have to be postponed.” He raises a finger at her, thinking himself very funny in that moment. 

 

 _“See?_ This is a perfect example of why you need _more_ than one secretary to order your God forsaken messed up excuse of a life,” is what Anthea mutters as he makes to turn away again. 

 

He blinks at her rare display of hostility. Perhaps she _is_ a little overworked after all he thinks, but still he asks, _“What_ did you say?” Turning back to the scene with a raised eyebrow. 

 

 _“Nothing,”_ Anthea chips in quickly, taking off her coat again with a bit of a scowl. It causes a ruffling noise to fill up the air. 

 

You, entertained by the whole thing, let out a bit of a chuckle. It’s not the first time that you’ve watched them together. You’ve often marvelled at the fact that it often seems like Anthea is secretly running the whole show. Your eyes have, on many a time, gone to Mycroft, wondering if he knows such a thing and if he does then why doesn’t he mind? Such a thing would usually irritate a man in his position, but Mycroft just seems to accept it. Could he be different to all those other government men in the office you think? Mycroft’s eyes swivel to you in irritation. Maybe not. Your laugh turns into a more demure cough. You look at the computer again. Your slightly restless hand swipes out a moment later and a bracelet on your wrist jangles as it dives into an open packet of prawn crackers that’s on the side of your desk. You pop one of the treats into your mouth. 

 

Mycroft steps forward ever so slightly, polished shoes glistening, as he watches you reprovingly. Most times he’s seen you, you haven’t been working and you now choosing to eat something in his presence is taking things a step too far in his mind. “You can take that smirk off your face too Miss. L/N. You’ll be working late as well. It’s your fault that both Anthea and I will be toiling away well into the night, so, as an apology to the both of us you can help make a record of the response that we’ll be giving. You can do that with Anthea,” he informs you pompously now.

 

Your face falls as you finish your prawn cracker. You look at him warily. _“Sir”-_

 

“I’ll tell Mr. Kelly,” he predicts what you’re about to say, as his eyes rake distractedly down to his papers again. 

 

“I work for Mr. Pemberton sir,” you tell him in exasperation, as you stand. 

 

“Well, then I’ll tell _him_ too,” Mycroft mutters dismissively, turning around, so that you won’t see his cheeks getting slightly redder. 

 

“With all due respect sir,” you call after him and Mycroft stops, “How exactly am _I_ to blame for all of this?” 

 

He turns around. You’ve got your eyebrows raised. It’s _Anthea_ who’s watching the scene with interest now. 

 

“Your brother opened his mouth. You might want to get him to stop doing that,” is all that Mycroft says, before he goes off once more. 

 

You half-turn back to Anthea and look at your friend in exasperation. You hadn’t known each other before you’d arrived in the office, but you’ve gotten quite close, the hornet’s nest of fire and turmoil, and oh yes the behind the scenes day-to-day life of the British government bonding you as its thrown you together for hurried lunches and moaning sessions about your respective bosses. Unlike the scheming men you work for however your brother Robert-who’s thirty with the same hair colour as you, narrow eyebrows, and more calculating eyes-is more in the public eye of things being an MP and a rather peacock like Foreign Secretary. Robert had just made the post this year and you know that going up in the world so quickly has only served to heighten his rate of opening his mouth per minute. He seems to forget that Father had been Chancellor years ago and that he’s had a fairly easy ride compared to some people. 

 

“Come on,” Anthea huffs with a sigh, gesturing at you now. “You’ll want to bring a pad. Leave the prawn crackers.” She says that last part only half-jokingly with a thinly veiled smile. 

 

You swipe up the closest pad in reach and knock the files in the holder to the floor in the process. You pick them up, whilst Anthea rolls her eyes good-naturedly and fumble for a pen, before you follow your friend into Mycroft’s office. 

 

Now seated behind his desk and looking very important Mycroft glances up on your and Anthea’s arrival. His eyes avert to his papers once he’s established that you’re both there, but he quickly finds himself looking up again, eyes focusing on you this time. “You have the remnants of the prawn cracker that you’ve just eaten all over your attire Miss. L/N.” He can’t let that go, _and,_ satisfied to have said such a thing he bows his head again, long, spider like fingers on the corner of one of his documents. 

 

Flushing you glance down. White crumbs lay all over the chest of your black jacket and you sense that the white collar of your shirt has gone wonky again. Its been doing so all day. You’ll really have to get a new shirt. Your hand instinctively makes to brush the crumbs off, but just before you do so your brain catches up with you and you look across at Mycroft. Having been disturbed by you once more he’s staring at you reproachfully, almost daring you to dirty his pristine floor and find out what the consequences will be. Swallowing you hurry out and locate the nearest bin, brushing the crumbs in there instead, before you return to his office a little more meekly. Yeah, he’s definitely like all the other government men. 

 

“Tell me, does Mr. Pemberton tolerate your uncleanliness Miss. L/N?” is what Mycroft asks as soon as you’re stood next to Anthea once more. 

 

“He doesn’t pay much attention to my eating habits or anything as long as I type and do what he asks without question. What exactly is it that my brother’s spoken about?” You want to get to the point, so you can tackle whatever he wants you to and go home, get ready for another day. 

 

He gazes at you for a moment. “He said that if NATO were doing their job properly then perhaps the British and the Americans wouldn't have to run around trying to be the Middle East’s peacekeepers. Not only has the German Chancellor taken the remarks most seriously, but they have also managed to offend the French, as both countries like to think that they are doing just as much. Not to mention its been taken as an attack on all the countries in the Middle East who would like to believe that they are self-efficient enough to run themselves and don’t need Western help.” He pauses and stares at you witheringly now. “Would you like to defend your brother Miss. L/N? Perhaps you’ll try and tell me that it wasn’t him even though we've got recorded footage of him saying such things.” He holds some of the papers upright and looks out over the top of them at you. 

 

“No sir. He could do with shutting up.” Mycroft looks both surprised and gratified by your response. You shift your position breathlessly now. Robert’s stupidity seems to have reached new heights and you cannot believe how reckless he’s been. He’s always acted so superior to you in the past, but even _you_ would know not to say something so dumb. 

 

“My thoughts exactly,” Mycroft says, and you both seem astonished to have found something that you agree on. He lowers the papers and lifts up the phone. 

 

*

 

Half-an-hour later things are tense inside the office. Your hair stands on end and is frazzled. Your lips are dry as you stand there scribbling anything that’s relevant down onto a yellow notepad. Anthea is on the other side of the room with a similar fixed expression of concentration about her face as she does the same. Whilst Mycroft, now jacket-less with his tie loose and waistcoat undone, black braces visible and furrowed hair, stands slightly bent, adopting a cautious, but firm voice as he talks loud enough for the speaker phone to pick up his words. 

 

“No, I assure you that just because the Foreign Secretary has said that does not mean that the Prime Minister agrees with his words,” he tells Gerhard Schroder the German Chancellor. He’s already spoken to the French President, another group is handling the Middle East and though he’s got sufficient language skills the German Chancellor has got enough English for his words to not need to be translated. The Chancellor’s response is short. Mycroft jerks his head back and makes a silent tutting gesture. At the same time he rolls his eyes skyward, before they land on you. You smile at him a little uncertainly. Frowning, and still reserving judgement and blaming you it seems for being related to the man who had caused all of this in the first place, he turns his back now and moves a couple of steps away. “No, of course the Prime Minister fully regrets the remarks. Not only were they misfortunate, but they also make a great mockery of an organization that Britain has always been very proud to be a part of.” He looks back over his shoulder at you, as if his words are for you too and he’s reminding you to live up to your father’s glory days rather than the false thrill that your brother is trying to create with his own job now. Less than impressed and still waiting for one of these government men to show you that they are something more than they seem you raise an eyebrow at him. “The Prime Minister is away in America at the moment, but a written statement will be”- the Chancellor interrupts him, saying something that amounts to, _‘That is not good enough.’_ Mycroft sighs. It is a heavy and deep one. 

 

Your brain, which has been ticking away sub-consciously and trying to think of something that might soften the blow as much as Mycroft has been without you even realizing it, falls upon something now and you begin to scribble furiously down on a fresh piece of your notepad paper. Anthea looks across at you with raised eyebrows, wondering if she’s missed something. Once you’re done you tear the page off, which makes a loud ripping noise and gets Mycroft whirling about and looking at you. You hand the page to him, before he can look too aggravated. He analyses what you’ve written with a furrowed brow, before he nods and meets your eyes. Apparently you’ve got more in your head than he’s been giving you credit for and though what you’ve noted down is hardly revolutionary he feels grateful for you for reminding him to stay on track all the same.

 

“If the Prime Minister were to announce tomorrow as part of his joint speech with the President of the United States that he disagrees with the Foreign Secretary on the strongest of terms and thinks of NATO as being an organization of the highest value would that serve to reassure you?” He goes with what you’d written. 

 

“That would be…a start certainly.” 

 

“But it would not be enough? You see, in spite of today’s error the Foreign Secretary has”- Mycroft tries to rescue the situation. It’s not that he likes your brother, _or_ that he particularly wants to defend him, but the government he has to admit would be worse off without him. It's rather a bitter pill to swallow. 

 

“Helped to build ties that have gotten some very good trade deals for you, yes,” the Chancellor finishes off for him abruptly. 

 

Wanting to help your brother too because he’s family more than anything else-not that he’d do the same for you-you wave to attract Mycroft’s attention, jot something down fast and then hold it up to him. _‘Offer to put more spending into NATO,’_ is what your piece of paper says. You point at the words certainly with your pen. 

 

Mycroft shakes his head at you and looks annoyed. ‘I cannot close any deal without the express permission of the Prime Minister,’ he mouths, and though you don’t get the full message you get the sense that you’ve hit a brick wall as far as your input is concerned, which annoys you. Not just because of what it might mean for your brother but because, and despite the fact that you’d wanted to go home soon, you’ve really started to get into saving this situation. It’s far more than what you’re usually tasked with and your brain relishes the opportunity. You hadn’t realized how switched off it had been until now. 

 

Mycroft, seeing such a thing from the determined expression on your face, studies you as the Chancellor speaks once more. “If you cannot give us the man’s head then a further monetary donation to NATO from your country would be most appreciated Mr. Holmes.”

 

All three of you freeze for a moment, before Mycroft comes back to life first. “Chancellor, we cannot just give money out every time that we make a mistake”- he begins, a trace of nervous laughter in his tone, as he tries to get what he wants without adding further complications. 

 

“Then perhaps you should not be making so many mistakes,” the Chancellor is curt. You hear the click of the phone a moment later. 

 

Mycroft disconnects the call from his end and sits down heavily. “Well, that was”-

 

“If that was the last call then may I please go sir?” Anthea, who is well versed in her boss’ all night ramblings, tries to get out of there quickly. 

 

“I suppose so.” He waves a hand at her, before he collects her notes. She walks quickly out of there, heels clapping onto the floor. 

 

Taking your time and not wanting to leave if you’re quite honest, you, not realizing how important it is to make a swift exit, lower your own notes onto his desk and catch the way that he rubs at his forehead with a weary hand. You turn reluctantly, _but-_

 

“One moment please Miss. L/N.” Mycroft beckons you back. With an eagerness that makes him smile in spite of himself you turn around to face him again. You wonder though, at the sight of his serious face, whether he’s about to give you a lecture that you can pass onto your brother. You are surprised when finally he says, “You’ve got some good instincts about you.”

 

 _“Oh.”_ You don’t know whether to be stunned or pleased. You opt for the latter. “Thank you sir.” 

 

“How would rotating with Anthea and covering half of my work both in and out of the office sound?” You’re even more taken aback by that. “As you heard Anthea’s always indicating that she’d like some time off.” He offers you a crooked half-smile now. 

 

“I think as long as I could have some decent time off too sir then that would be all wrapped up in a bow as they say.”

 

Mycroft stands up with a snort. “Who on earth says that Miss. L/N?”

 

You gaze at him levelly. “I do sir.”

 

“Well, not in this office you don’t.”

 

“We’ll see.” You smile, feeling pleased with yourself. 

 

*

 

That Monday, clad in your new clothes-Anthea, who is very content about your new employment, had taken you out shopping that weekend-and feeling happy with the, ‘It satisfies me to see you looking so smart,’ comment that you’d received from Mycroft, you have to deal with a very cross reaction from Mr. Pemberton who storms into Mycroft’s office. Even though the door shuts behind him you can still make out how Mr. Pemberton accuses Mycroft of poaching his staff, though you miss the punch line of Mycroft saying brusquely that perhaps Mr. Pemberton should have given your brain more to do and then you wouldn't have been snatched from him quite so quickly. If you had heard that though you probably still wouldn't have felt that bad for Mr. Pemberton. If the other night had proved anything then it’s that you’ll be happier under Mycroft’s leadership. 

 

*

 

Anthea finds herself smiling a month later as she sits by her desk and hears from behind her the firm, familiar tread of her boss’ footsteps followed by the sound of your voice. She hears Mycroft humming something in response. It’s odd how much the pair of you get along. She would never have guessed that he would have had the time or patience to mentor anyone before, but then it must be an ego boost to have someone so enthusiastic around him when he’s only ever been around anti-social her before. That’s probably why he never leaves you frowning for too long when there _are_ fallings out between you. 

 

Now, as she hears the pair of you come to a stop by the closest gap to her in the partition she spins around in her chair. Mycroft says something with his head close and his eyes focused on yours, as if his words are just meant for you alone. You listen intently, as ready to please him as ever. It’s like the pair of you are in your own little bubble, far removed from the clack of typists and the noisy thrust of the printer. You break out of the conversation a moment later, looking pleased and grinning at Anthea without being able to help it, as you return to your desk. 

 

Anthea watches as Mycroft smiles after you, before she gets up and goes up to him. 

 

He blinks at her. “Has something happened?”

 

“No sir.” She places a hand on her hip. “Did you enjoy taking your little protégée out for a walk? Teach her any new tricks yet?” Her eyes glint with mischief. 

 

“Green is not a colour that suits you Anthea.”

 

“I am sure that I have no idea what you mean sir,” Anthea says as he takes a step forward in order to avoid someone that’s coming down the corridor. 

 

“Oh really?” His gaze goes to you again. _“F/N?”_ he calls. Your head bobs above your computer like a dog looking for a treat. Some of your hair has come undone from your ponytail and Mycroft frowns at it, feeling the irrational need to tidy you up. He dismisses the thought and asks instead, “Do you think that Anthea’s jealous of your usefulness?” 

 

“I wouldn't be doing my job right if she wasn’t,” you grin back. 

 

Mycroft gives a smug look of raised eyebrows to Anthea. “Told you so.” 

 

“One day sir F/N will work for me. I will poach her just like you did. Then we will gang up on you,” Anthea retorts.

 

“I don’t deny it, but I think a time will come even later than that when we will both be working for F/N and she will be in charge of the pair of us, lording it over with the supreme knowledge that she’s gaining bit by bit every day,” he says in a heavy and resigned way, whilst you smile in delight at the idea and Anthea rolls her eyes. 

 

Mycroft winks at her and gives you a sort of mysterious smile, before he heads back to his office. As he does so he softly sighs, going back over how you’d once more proven yourself at the meeting you’d just attended together, handling the foreign delegates with ease and doing copious shorthand notes as he’d spoken with them. You’re progressing so well in your job. You’re always studying everything you can get your hands on, listening to him hard and asking all the right questions. He’d expected a certain amount of dedication from you after the way that you’d first performed that night, but he hadn’t dared hope for this much. It makes him feel proud of you. As a thought occurs to him he goes out again. You’re diligently typing away now and for a moment he just watches you. _“F/N?”_

 

Your head pops up again. Anthea represses a snort. It's obvious to her how much you like him. “Yes sir?” 

 

“Come to my office later, before you leave for the day would you?” You look suddenly a little apprehensive. “It’s all right. You’re not in any trouble.” He gives you another of those mysterious smiles of his now and returns to his office. 

 

You exchange a glance with Anthea. She shrugs. “At least it’s a better warning than, ‘One moment please.’” You smile now. Mycroft has almost become famous in your head for saying that, but still you feel a little twitchy. 

 

Early evening you get up and make your way to his office just like he’d suggested you do so. You knock. 

 

“Come in.” A little hesitantly you enter and look across to where Mycroft is seated behind his desk for guidance. As he glances up at you all the creases on his face smooth out. “Ah F/N, yes, come in.” You close the door properly behind you and make your way forward, taking up the seat that’s in front of his desk when he gestures you to. “I thought it might help your progress here if we had a regular discussion of foreign policy and the like, things which you need to be on top of. I can point out the most important ones, which you need to have knowledge of and then you’ll probably end up being more properly informed rather than you trying to know everything and perhaps not getting anywhere in the end.” He thinks that he’s doing it because he wants to help your career. Thinks that if he can do anything he can to help you then that will be good for the both of you.

 

You think the same and the tension that had formed naturally in your shoulders dissipates. How odd it is to have a boss who wants to spend more time with you! “Thank you sir. I’d like that. That is of course”-you gesture with your hand, Mycroft frowns-“If it won’t take up too much of your time?” 

 

Mycroft shakes his head and rustles some of the papers that are on his desk. “I honestly don’t think it will. I believe that it will keep me focused if anything.”

 

*

 

Mycroft returns to the office on the fifth of December, which unlike a lot of others across the country is not winding down for the holidays or conducting any silly, ‘Secret Santa,’ events and where things are just as frantic as ever. He’s feeling happy on the whole because he’d just managed to avoid giving money to carollers, but he _is_ feeling a little cold. He spies you sitting upright at your desk. Your hair is tied up and there are no crumbs any more or folders looking like they’re about to tip. In fact the appearance of both your desk and you is a perfectly smart one. He watches as you nod as Anthea returns to her desk opposite yours and shrugs off her coat. 

 

“F/N?” he calls across to you. You look over at him. “Anything that I need to be aware of?”

 

“Fernando da Piedade Dias dos Santos has been made Prime Minister of Angola. The former Prime Minister of Myanmar has died and the four-hour target to get patients dealt with in Accident and Emergency departments in part of this country don’t look like they’re going to be met.” 

 

Mycroft nods. Whilst he’s often drawn into matters of defence and problems of communication between countries he holds the rare position of being briefed about all departments and looking at the best advice and future prospects that he can help make happen for every single one of them. He goes to his office now. You’ve barely turned back to Anthea when he’s rejoining the pair of you once more. Coming closer he holds up a brown paper bag. “What’s this?” He’d found it upon his desk. 

 

You stand up, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Oh yes, your mother phoned, _again_ sir.” 

 

“You didn't think that was something that I should be made aware of?” he asks you, almost pouting now as he places the bag down upon Anthea’s desk. He slowly empties its contents to reveal-a small bottle of orange juice, a boxed up salad, which is mostly lettuce with one of those white plastic forks and slices of mango in a sealed up wrapper. 

 

“I thought you wanted _work_ news sir.” Anthea and you are _both_ smiling now. Mycroft looks as disgruntled about the salad as if war has just been declared. “Anyway,” you continue, “Your mother says that unless you start eating more healthily and taking care of yourself you won’t hit fifty.” You pull a bit of a face. 

 

“Might you remind my mother F/N that I'm yet to reach even forty,” Mycroft scowls. 

 

“That’s all very well and good sir, but your mother said that she often forgets your age because you act like an old man.” Mycroft’s frown just grows now. A moment later he tries to dump the salad in the grey bin that’s between both Anthea’s and your desk, but you stop him with one deft hand. He tries to dodge you and ends up plucking back some of your hair, which has quickly become ruffled by the activity. Trying not to blush you persist in blocking him, so he desists and steps back. “Your mother also told me to not let you do that sir.” You carefully lift the salad back down onto the table. 

 

Mycroft’s glower deepens, before he lets out a heavy sigh. Sticking his hands into his pockets he gazes down at the salad. “In all seriousness though F/N you have to stop indulging my mother by answering her calls when she deems fit to ring me at work”-

 

“But her gossip about you brings sunlight into my day sir,” you quip, knowing that he’s only half-heartedly telling you off and using it your full advantage. “Like the story she told me about when you got lost on your bicycle aged seven. You were in a mood about your baby brother and you tried to go off on an expedition. That’s why your mother thinks that you’re so good at finding your way around places. She says that you have a natural talent for it”-Mycroft feels momentarily flattered-“But you’ve had a bit of a phobia about camping ever since.” Mycroft’s face falls. “Or that time when you were a teenager and you thought that no one could hear you, but really ”-

 

“Yes, well that’s quite enough of that”- Mycroft interrupts, more flustered now and thinking that he’s really going to have to have a talk with his mother about work-home boundaries and what the people working for him really do _not_ need to know. People close by snigger. “Anthea never interrupts her day of work in order to speak to my mother. She acts like the assistant that you should aspire to be,” he says and your face collapses for a moment. You don’t tell him that talking to his mother comforts you. 

 

“I don’t interrupt it because she rambles on as much as you,” Anthea gets out underneath her breath now when she sees how you look uncomfortable.

 

 _“Pardon?”_ Mycroft asks. 

 

“I just said that I'm not as nice as F/N is sir,” Anthea says now with a winning smile. 

 

“Hmm.” Mycroft looks at her consideringly with a tilted head. “Do you know, you might be right about that?” he teases. 

 

 _“Sir!”_ Anthea protests. “That’s what I get for my loyalty!” She pretends to be outraged.

 

Mycroft’s eyes spark with mischief as he looks back at you. “In any case I'm your boss and I’d rather that my lunch consisted of something heartier and”-

 

“More cake like?” 

 

Mycroft looks ruffled for a moment. “Well, yes. Exactly Miss. L/N. Glad to see that we’re on the same page.”

 

“The thing is I don’t think we are sir.” Mycroft’s expression drops at your words. “You see”-you shift from foot to foot and Mycroft’s resigned face tells you to just go ahead and spit it out-“If you’re my boss then your mother’s _your_ boss, which would make her to me, well, like my ultimate boss or something now wouldn't it?”

 

Mycroft thinks about that for a mere moment now, before his gaze turns once more disdainfully to the salad. “I'm actually going to have to eat that aren't I?” he mutters mournfully.

 

“Yes sir,” both Anthea and you chorus. 

 

He walks off, taking his meagre lunch with him and you’re still snickering about it all as you sit back down again. 

 

“You’re going to lose points if you keep that up,” Anthea warns, though she’s got a grin upon her face. 

 

“It’s too funny not to,” you chortle, just checking out your e-mails to make sure that there’s nothing urgent that you have to deal with, before you head off for your own lunch. You freeze. 

 

Anthea catches your expression faltering from where she’s now back by her own desk, about to fish out some money from her handbag that she’s put on her chair, so that she too can get some food. “What is it?” she asks, face turning concerned. 

 

“Er, nothing, it’s nothing.” You take a bit of a deep breath now as you come back to life. Your head feels like it wants to spin, but you mustn't let it. That would be terrible. You make to click off the e-mail, but Anthea’s already coming around and looking over your shoulder. Reluctantly you let her read the e-mail. 

 

She does so once feeling shocked. Then she reads through it again just to make sure that she still feels she should be sticking to what her gut instinct is telling her to do about this. “I'm talking to Mycroft.” She pulls back. 

 

“What? _No,”_ is your instant reaction. You don’t want to overreact about this and have Mycroft think that you’re flighty, easily disturbed and not up to working for him. You’d rather just take a moment and figure out what it is that you should do for yourself, but Anthea doesn’t give you time to protest any further. She quickly makes her way to Mycroft’s office. After locking your screen you hurriedly follow her. 

 

Mycroft, who’s just about to take another bite of his unappetizing salad with his mouth open, glances up as the pair of you come to stand by his office door. You’re still protesting, even trying to tug on Anthea’s arm and pull her away. He notices that the assistant he’s had for the longest looks bothered, _shaken_ about something. He’s a little amazed at the way you’re behaving too. You’re usually quite active, but this is taking it to a whole new level. 

 

“What is it?” Despite his concerns part of him is admittedly just glad to have a distraction from his salad. He holds the little fork with its abundance of lettuce leaves on its end aloft and holds the hope that he might never have to eat it. 

 

“Sir there’s something that you need to see immediately,” Anthea doesn’t waste any time and neither does he. At her urgent tone the lettuce leaves fall off the fork and back down into the salad in slow motion. He rises. 

 

“Really sir it’s not”- you babble as Mycroft slides his jacket back on. 

 

He raises an eyebrow at the pair of you. Something tells him that it’s a matter of grave importance and his heart thumps, but he can’t resist joking all the same, “This isn’t anything silly that the pair of you want to spend your Christmas bonuses on now is it?” He adjusts his jacket until it’s on him more comfortably and follows you both out of the room. “Or even worse something that you want to get _me_ to spend my money on?” He remembers how the both of you would have ordered him a pair of Union Jack boxer shorts if he hadn’t stopped you at the last moment. That had been during a rare slow day at the office and both Anthea and you hadn’t wasted a second of it. 

 

“No sir.” Anthea looks back at him over her shoulder. “This is serious.”

 

Mycroft nods. His lips tighten. 

 

You slip back into your chair and unlock the screen. The pair of them hover over your shoulders. When he realizes just how severe this all is Mycroft leans closer still, one of his hands curling up on your desk as he balances there. You can smell his cologne. Appropriately for the season it’s like warm spice and mulled wine. Oddly that’s all you can think about as you re-read: YOU FUCKING BITCH. I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL SLIT YOUR THROAT. DO YOU THINK THAT YOUR BROTHER CAN GET AWAY WITH SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT ABOUT MY COUNTRY? WELL, LET’S SEE HOW HE LIKES HAVING HIS SISTER KIDNAPPED AND DEGRADED. LET’S SEE HOW HE LIKES THAT. ARE YOU READING THIS? PASS THIS ON. FUCKING BITCH. The sentences become ugly words before you and then the words just become you lost in a daze. Mycroft’s arm shifts in your vision and you come out of your haze. 

 

“It’s probably nothing sir. My brother has gotten some messages like that before. I'm sure that”-

 

“F/N go into my office.” Mycroft is swift to react. “Anthea get me Luke Russell.” He’s the head of Mycroft’s security detail. “Tell him it’s important and that I need to speak with him urgently.” Mycroft’s heart thumps despite his outer calm. Anthea nods, looking like she too is trying to keep her mind steady. 

 

As you stand Mycroft begins to shepherd you into his office, one hand curved in an arc as it doesn’t touch, but steers you there. Once you’re past the threshold he brushes against you-as if he’s checking that you’re still there-and heads back around to the other side of the desk. “Close the door,” he says as he sits down. You do so, still feeling a bit distant from it all, as if it’s not really _you_ who’s there, but someone else that you’re watching on TV. “Have you had any messages like that before?” Mycroft ignores his salad. His blue eyes fix on you. 

 

“No sir.” You shake your head.

 

“I expect it’s about the comments he made. How out of all the refugees that came to Britain last year most of them came from Afghanistan? Your brother said that lessening the amount entering should be a priority next year because we have enough problems of our own.”

 

“Yes sir.” Out of everything you’d say that that’s the thing that best fits too.

 

“Well, cheer up Miss. L/N. It turns out that the little message you received could be a good thing after all if it gets your brother to think differently. It might even shut him up as we've both been hoping for.” He tries to smile. Reassure you both. 

 

“I wouldn't count on it sir.” You’re not trying to get any attention by saying this or act out or anything, but you really don’t believe that Robert finding out about your e-mail will make the slightest difference. To him these are things, which just have to be said. He believes that he is doing the business of government as much as Mycroft is by conducting himself in a completely different matter and he won’t stop himself for you. You feel sure of it. 

 

Mycroft looks at you for a moment because that statement makes him feel alarmed. Then, and with a grim face, he turns his attention to one of his desk drawers. Pulling it open he rummages through it for a moment, before he slaps down a document onto his desk. He draws out a pristine blue fountain pen from his inside jacket pocket and pushes them both across to you. “I want you to sign this.” He’d been about to make you do so anyway, but the comment that you’ve just made about your brother further encourages him to get the ball rolling. “It will give your consent to having a security detail who will watch you around the clock, both here and at your home address.” The thought calms him slightly. 

 

You however feel anxious about how much fuss is being made over all of this and you’re not sure that you fancy the idea of being observed all the time either. “Really sir”-

 

“This is no time to be coy Miss. L/N. Threats like the one you’ve received need to be taken seriously. Sign. Please. _Now.”_ He taps the chosen pen against the piece of paper. Your protestations make him feel uneasy. Slowly you approach the desk, read through the document and sign it. “You will stay in my office for the rest of the afternoon. If you want anything then someone will go and fetch it. Anthea will accompany you to the bathroom. She may not look like it, but she’s most competent in the martial arts. Your computer and most importantly the hard drive will have to be taken apart and searched thoroughly for any evidence. Whilst you are here and have little to do might I suggest that you go back in your mind and search for anything odd? Anyone who you now think that might have been watching you recently? Anything strange that you might have received in the post or otherwise? If you think of anything suspicious at all then either tell me or write it down if I am not in the room and show it to me as soon as I return. You haven’t given your work e-mail address out to anyone recently have you?”

 

“Only to colleagues sir, but it’s pinned up to my computer, so anyone could see it.”

 

Mycroft frowns. “You should probably be more careful about security Miss. L/N. I’ll have it taken down at once.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“In the meantime”-he regards you cautiously-“You might as well write down a list of anyone that you can remember who definitely has access to it. We should be able to get any you don’t catch from your computer records. Ah, Anthea.” Mycroft stands now. “Is Russell-?”

 

Anthea whose popped her head around the door says efficiently, “On line one sir.” She smiles at you in a reassuring fashion as you look at her, but as soon as you look away again she gestures prominently from you to the desk, as if you should really be sitting down and be given more support considering what you’re going through. 

 

Mycroft stops thinking about looking after you in the long-term and looks at her with a creased brow, before he understands her meaning. Seeing such a thing she withdraws her head. “Ah, yes, F/N, why don’t you take my seat for now? Can’t have you fainting on me. Feel free to take my salad too.” There are two chairs in front of his desk, but he’d rather have you at the back of the room and in a position where you can duck down behind his desk if need be. There’s no window behind the desk thankfully, but rather a portrait of Her Majesty, so that line of defence is covered. 

 

Ignoring the remark about the salad and sensing Anthea’s interference in all this, you say, “I'm fine sir.”

 

“No really, having to take you to hospital right now would not be the easiest of procedures what with everything that’s going on. Please, I insist.” He gestures. 

 

Slowly you take his seat, but ignore his salad. He taps at its container with his finger as if to prompt you into devouring it. You give him a bit of a dirty look as he does so. He chuckles, suddenly feeling a lot better at your more normal behaviour. “I'm sure that Mummy would want you to live until you’re fifty too.” He picks up the phone. “Ah, hello. Luke, yes. We've got a bit of a situation here…”

 

*

 

After his call from Luke it’s not long before Mycroft gets a text. **On my way, but give me a good reason why I should return into the fold after what happened?** It’s from Max Hardacre, one of Mycroft’s least favourite people. Unfortunately he can’t possibly ignore him. 

 

You glance at Mycroft when he clears his throat. He meets your eyes. “I'm just going to step out for a moment.” He taps his mobile against his hand. Looking at him with trust in your eyes you nod. It makes Mycroft feel all the guiltier as he moves just outside the room. He leaves the door ajar behind him, looks furtively around and then accesses the intranet. He gets up the photo of you that’s on the upgraded pass you’d gotten when you’d started working for him-it had been taken on your first day there and at being reminded of how far you’ve come it makes him feel proud. He attaches it to a blank text and sends it to Max. He’s sure that Max, who has always been something of a womaniser, will notice that you’re beautiful and suddenly, at that thought, Mycroft feels a little uneasy. Especially with the way that he’s trying to use the fact to coax Max all the more quickly to the scene, as if you’re an object to be lusted over. He wouldn't usually do such a thing and he wonders if he should ring Luke back. Luke had suggested that Max should handle all this. Max had once been the head of Mycroft’s security detail, and though they’d parted less than amicably in the end, Mycroft knows that Max, will be the person who’s most up to the job. Still, he’s starting to have his reservations, more than ever because just the thought of Max has already got him acting differently again. There’s the matter of course of Max being a flirt. Is someone like that _really_ the best person to have around you right now? Should he ring Luke back and tell him to send someone else? But then Luke knows of the past history that’s between him and Max and would think that Mycroft was merely using that and making it about himself rather than seeing past his own thoughts and doing all that he can to shield you. Mycroft frowns. Surely it doesn’t matter who protects you as long as you’re protected? That’s what he should be thinking of. He starts to put his phone back into the pocket of his jacket. 

 

“Did you just send a photo of me to someone?” Your voice suddenly speaks right into his ear and Mycroft jumps, before he realizes that you’ve crept up on him and are standing on your tiptoes to enable you to peer over his shoulder. “Oh gosh, sorry,” you add when you see how much you’ve surprised him. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he says, “You should be inside my office.” You’re hardly out of it, but he shoos you back inside at once and closes the door behind you both. He doesn’t speak again until you’re sitting back behind his desk. _“Good”-_ He looks relieved for about a fraction of a second. 

 

“I was sort of bored sir,” you say, and he can see now that you’ve drunk half of his orange juice and even picked at a few of the salad leaves in your desperation. You’ve also made lists Mycroft is pleased to see. “Are you sure that there’s nothing I can do?” You point at the door, which you’ve noticed that a lot of activity is going on outside of. You feel rather jealous. 

 

“Your job is to stay in that position and to stay alive.” Mycroft tries to look at you witheringly, but it doesn’t seem to work. It never does around you like there’s some disconnect there and the plug, which would usually generate his stern temperament is loose. 

 

You’re still bold enough to ask, “So, the photo then?” 

 

Mycroft feels disconcerted for a moment. How would you feel about what he’d just done? “Ah, yes. They needed a couple of details about you sent over that’s all.” Mycroft feels rather glad when Anthea pops her head around the office door again. 

 

“Max Hardacre sir.” 

 

Mycroft’s pleasure evaporates. “Send him in.” He makes a brusque hand gesture.

 

Max, thirty-one, tall, somehow lean, but muscular with messy gelled dark brown hair that sticks forwards in forks swaggers in as if he owns the place. His searching thick chocolate eyes that do a complete sweep of the vicinity, before they land on you. His hands are in the pockets of his grey suit and his face transforms in delight as he looks at you. “Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” he says. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat now and thinks that he should definitely have rung Luke back again. He has only has to see Max to be reminded of how badly he’d been let down by him and the thought of having to put up with him again doesn’t improve his mood. His hands find his pockets and clench there. _“Max,”_ he says, the word terse. 

 

Max turns to him. “You could look pleased to see me. How’s your brother doing these days?” 

 

You stand up from your post at the desk, looking a little wary as you glance between the two men and wondering what Max had just meant. 

 

“F/N.” Mycroft forces himself to look at you and tries to be professional. “This is Max Hardacre. He was the head of my own security detail, before he left me for the Prime Minister”- 

 

Max lets out a booming laugh. “Left you for the Prime Minister? That’s not exactly how I remember it all happening.” He gives Mycroft a sly look now and again you’re confused about all the unspoken things that seem to be passing between them, but in the next moment you’re distracted when Max chooses to sweep towards you and shake your hand. He leans close to you as he does such a thing and you get a red tint about your face. You might be finding his attitude a bit odd, but you can’t deny that he’s attractive. “How’s it like working for this one?” Max jerks his head back towards Mycroft. “Is he as boring as ever?” Mycroft frowns. 

 

 _“Actually”-_ you begin and Mycroft feels oddly hopeful considering the circumstances, before Max cuts you off. 

 

“Of course he is.” The guard chuckles now. “I used to pass him off onto other people as much as I could when I was in charge of his security detail. He’s a good insomnia cure though, I’ll say that much about him.” 

 

“I find the way that you just interrupted me to be very rude,” you announce, and Max pulls a bit of a face as if to say, _‘Aren't you so prim and proper?’_

 

“She’s just as dull as you.” Max finishes his assessment of you and looks towards Mycroft. 

 

“I find F/N to be an exceptional worker,” Mycroft begins confidently and Max pulls another face, whilst you nearly combust and etch those words that had come from Mycroft’s lips into your mind forever. “In any case whatever you think of either her or me should be of no consequence to you. You have a job to do and I suggest that you do it well.” 

 

 _“Or-?”_ Max raises his eyebrows. 

 

Whilst Mycroft is in the middle of glaring at Max, Anthea pops her head back in. _“Sir?”_ She looks at Mycroft. “Perhaps you could help me with something? I'm sure that Max and F/N need to go over procedure.” 

 

“Yeah, bye.” Max gives Mycroft a cocky little wave. 

 

Mycroft, frowning, sees fit to inform you that he’ll be just outside should you need him for anything, before he goes off with Anthea again. As he closes the door he glances back at the pair of you. Max has now sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk and you’re looking at him intently. That uneasy feeling in Mycroft’s stomach just grows. 

 

When he’s by Anthea’s desk and looking down at paperwork with her she says, “It had to be him didn't it?” She casts a dark look towards Mycroft’s closed office door now. 

 

Mycroft tries to be positive despite his own reservations. “I'm sure that he’s the best person for the job.” He huffs it out and isn’t very convincing. Anthea looks at him. 

 

*

 

“So F/N. You’ve got questions?” 

 

“Yeah, actually, how is all of this going to work?” you start off uncertainly now. “Are you going to be out of sight all of the time or-?” 

 

“Well,” Max begins to explain, “I can work from a bit of a distance definitely, though I'm sure you won’t want me to be _too_ far away from you.” He winks now and you feel instantly annoyed with him. You hadn’t liked the way that he’d spoken to Mycroft earlier and you’re not appreciative of the way that he’s treating you now.

 

“Can you just answer my questions?” You fold your arms, hating the fact that you have to look to him to get any answers at all. You wish that Mycroft could have just explained things to you. That would have been nice. Mycroft’s got a lovely voice though you often try and limit the amount of times that you have thoughts like that when you’re around him. Having grown up amongst government types your whole life the thought of being with one doesn’t appeal to you. In any case, nice voice or not, he probably can’t be trusted just like all the others. Still, nice voice you think. 

 

“There’s going to be someone there standing outside when you go to the bathroom. A scout of your place and the surrounding area where you live will be happening right now as we speak. Your spare room or settee will be occupied. I would say your bed, but I don’t think”-

 

“You’re going to have to _live_ with me?” you exclaim, not liking the sound of that at all. You’d figured that someone would be waiting outside your flat in a car or something. There’s no way that you want Max anywhere near your private space, let alone _in_ it. 

 

“Uh-huh.” Max nods. “Only way to do it.” He looks slightly aggravated with all of your protestations. Usually women trip over themselves to be guarded by him. 

 

“Erm.” You stand. “I'm just gonna”- you point towards the door. Max nods, getting a bit of an amused smirk about his face now. You hurry out of there and spot Mycroft and Anthea by her desk. Mycroft’s on the phone, whilst Anthea stands by him, half-bent as she rifles through some paperwork. Mycroft makes his excuses to whoever’s on the other end and puts his hand over the receiver, as soon as you stop before them. 

 

“F/N.” His brows are all furrowed. “You shouldn't be out here. Max shouldn't have”- he sounds suddenly anxious, as if there might be a sniper near by. 

 

“Sir I think all of this has been a gigantic overreaction. I'm going to have to have someone in my apartment, probably going through all of my things and we don’t even know if anything more is going to be happening in the first place, so why don’t we all just calm down here?”

 

Mycroft’s face darkens at what you’re implying. Whether it’s Max or himself doing it you _will_ be protected. You will not go against his plans. He steps forwards in an attempt to show such a thing and brings the cradle of the phone in a precarious position close to the edge of the desk. 

 

“Sir the phone,” Anthea reminds him, trying not to roll her eyes. He swats a hand at her, before he replaces it back on the phone. He adjusts his position and then returns his gaze to you. 

 

“F/N I'm not going to be hearing any more objections from you. I know it is a difficult thing. I have been through it myself and getting used to a security detail is not easy I know, but you are going to go back into that office right now without any complaint and you are going to do everything that Max tells you and be nothing less than gracious. You understand?” 

 

You think that he’s being most unfair, but know better than to further object when he’s in _this_ kind of mood. “Yes sir,” you mumble, looking down at your shoes, before you turn away again.

 

“And tell Max that if I see you out here again unprotected then he will have me to answer to.” Mycroft calls after you. 

 

His grim tone suddenly fills you with more certainty. “Yes sir!” You almost go off with a bounce in your step.

 

Your vague semblance of a good mood though falls back down again when Max tells you, “Ooh, I'm so scared,” in response to you repeating what Mycroft had just said. 

 

“You’re very childish for someone who’s meant to be protecting people.” You sit back down opposite him. 

 

“Not what you were expecting?” Max leans back and puts his feet up on Mycroft’s desk. You try and push them off because they land on some paperwork, but Max is like an immobile rock and your intentions prove fruitless. “Then again you’re very serious for someone who’s just an assistant. I don’t care what Mycroft says. You fetch his coffee don’t you?” His eyes contain a stubborn gleam about them. 

 

“Well yeah, sometimes, but”- you try and tug the paperwork from out underneath him, breaking off when it rips. _“Shit!”_ You notice that it’s an important document that has just been signed recently. The tear has gone straight through the signature. You jump up, feeling adrenalin, as well as nerves inside you. “I’ll be right back.” You’re grimmer this time and perhaps because of Mycroft’s threat or because he just wants to watch, Max follows you. 

 

You hope that Mycroft might show some understanding-it had been an accident after all-but his face grows to resemble something most dangerous, as soon as you come to a halt and show him the part that you’re holding up of the ripped paper. “I did not think that you would be so petty as to take out your annoyance with me on my things Miss. L/N. Especially on my work documents”-

 

“But sir I didn't. I wasn’t annoyed with you, it was”- you try to explain.

 

He raises a hand to quell you. “Might I suggest that since it is pointless in you being here that you take the rest of the day off and be escorted to your home?” 

 

_“Sir”-_

 

“I was suggesting, but now I'm _telling_ you Miss. L/N. Go home and get yourself and _him”-_ he nods at Max-“Out of here.” He doesn’t like the way that things are going. There has been too much change in one day. Change with work he can usually cope with, but for some reason what has happened today makes everything in his mind palace feel as if it’s all up in the air. 

 

You look at Anthea, hoping that she might show you some support, but she just shakes her head, looking sad about it all. 

 

“Y-Yes sir.” You look crestfallen and if anyone were looking at Mycroft then they’d be able to see the brief flicker of pain that crosses his face, before it hardens once more. 

 

“I’ve told your brother about what happened and suggested that he might want to tighten his own security. He was, as you warned he might be, a trifle unconcerned about your well being, but he said that he might, if he remembers, pass a message on to your father about it all.” In actual fact your brother _is_ somewhat concerned about the situation and you, but Mycroft, in his current state isn’t feeling kind enough to let that slip. 

 

“I see how it is sir.” Mournfully now you make to collect your things and Mycroft stands up perfectly straight, trying to ignore the way that Max looks at him calculatingly, until both the guard and you are out of the office. Then he releases a very heavy sigh. 

 

Anthea looks at him now, as if he’s just been very stupid. “I don’t know why you had to tell her that.” Mycroft glances at her. “She’s already had a death threat today and now she’s going to think that you hate her on top of it all.” 

 

“Well I don’t.” Mycroft looks ruffled. 

 

“You might fancy telling her that when you next see her,” is all that Anthea says, before they both get on with their work again. 

 

*

 

You, walking quickly and not caring whether Max can keep up with you or not, are about to head off to the Tube Station when he grabs at your arm and pulls you back. “You’ll be riding in a SUV from now on.”

 

Groaning, as if in pain, you follow him to the gigantic, black SUV that he leads you over to. Once you’ve clambered awkwardly inside and thrust your seat belt over you, you ask him, “How long is all this going to take?”

 

“As long as it takes.” Max shrugs. “You’re probably gonna be stuck with me for a while.” He grins wolfishly, starting the engine and swinging out, away from the office, past the barrier and into a steady stream of flowing traffic.

 

You wriggle about. It’s like the seatbelt threatens to strangle you in spite of the fact that you feel as if you’re sitting in a giant’s chair. “What do you look out for when you’re doing this?” you ask, more just to say something than anything else and in any case it’s not as if you’re not intrigued about it all. 

 

“Hmm.” Max considers for a moment. “People acting strange, fidgeting, looking like they don’t belong where they are, like they’re pretending to do something, but not really doing it or checking their pockets constantly. Any of the same characters that keep being on the scene….” He trails off now and so does your mind. You have a chance to think properly about the e-mail, everyone’s responses to it and Mycroft’s harsh reply to you the last time you’d seen him. You hate the fact that he’d used what you’d said about your brother against you-it makes you feel disappointed and like he’s just like all those other government men-but you hate his dismissal of you all the more. You sigh, wishing he didn't make you feel this way, so conflicted, _torn._ You shouldn't be feeling about a man of government in this way. It’s not part of your plan. If you had to like anyone as deeply as you know you like Mycroft then you’d always wanted it to be someone who was the complete opposite of your father and brother. Not someone who's still so close to their world. 

 

Max looks across at you. For once he doesn’t say anything to you and starts a call on his hands-free system instead to a colleague, managing to establish that the area around your apartment has been searched, but your apartment itself is yet to be so. Max says he’ll handle it, which leaves you feeling all the more glum. 

 

*

 

Once you’re finally dismounting from the SUV-you’re no horse rider, but it’s the same kind of feeling you’d imagine-you lead the way up the steps with Max following you closely, as he looks around. Though it’s reluctant-you almost feel like letting the door slam shut and locking him out to be honest-you let the pair of you into the building. Two flights of stairs and half a corridor of silence later and you’re at your apartment. 

 

Max goes in first, switching on the light and swiping up your post. After a quick scout around he rifles through it. 

 

“Don’t I get privacy any more?” Max ignores you. “Anything there?” you question somewhat apprehensively, as he turns and moves towards the kitchenette that’s on the left. He dumps the mail down on one of the counters. 

 

“Not today.” He shakes his head. Swallowing and feeling somewhat steadier now that you’ve been given that news you turn and move to close the curtains and blinds. You miss how Max grimly slides something from the middle of the pile of post down into his coat pocket as you do so. But you don’t miss how he goes on to shrug off his coat, drape it over the back of the settee and nose around your apartment more thoroughly even though there’s no need for him to. You can see the handgun that he keeps inside his holster, but though it makes you nervous it doesn’t put you off from giving him a withering glare. “It’s my job,” he tells you. He pushes your bedroom door open, which you’d left ajar when things had been oh so very different that morning and steps inside. You feel a little impressed by the focused side of him. But then he ruins it by saying, “Nice underwear.” 

 

Flushing angrily you barge in there to see that he’s got your underwear drawer open. You shut it with a firm thud, not taking care to mind his fingers. “That’s not your job,” you tell him. 

 

“It could be,” he murmurs. 

 

“Well, anyway, you’ve already looked around. You don’t need to be in here.” You direct him out of there again. Away from the mostly plain room with its basic furniture-like the rest of the apartment it's not that lived in considering you’re out most of the time. No family photographs or even signs of a night out with friends. Though there is a piece of blood red tinsel that you’ve threaded through the gaps in your headboard and which the colour of now makes you feel uneasy. Whilst there are also signs of a person in a hurry, which you often are, through the open wardrobe door and the clothes like stains upon the floor. 

 

He moves into the bathroom and you try and haul him out of there too, thinking that he’s being more annoying now than actually doing his job, but he extracts himself from you and says, “Hey, do you mind? I actually need to go.” Sending him an unconvinced glare you let him close the door and separate you.

 

There’s no Christmas tree up-you really couldn't be bothered since it’s just you-so you have free reign of the main living space as you pace back and forth, huffing moodily and ignoring the jumble of plates that are waiting to be dried up in the kitchenette and the coffee table with its ringed cup stains. You turn away from the curtains once and suddenly, as sly as ever, there is Max, now by the coffee table, as he looks through one of the books on foreign policy trade rules that has been sprawled there. You’ve underlined and highlighted some parts of it and there’s even little yellow post-it notes sticking out of some of the pages. 

 

“Nice bedtime story here. I don’t get why you were so droopy earlier. Or why you’re acting like if you don’t know these things you’ll be killed. You might be sacked yeah, but I'm sure that you’d find another job, maybe not just as quickly as Mycroft would replace you, but”- 

 

“This is the only job that I want.” As soon as you say it, you know it’s true. It might drive you crazy sometimes with its long hours and stress, but you’ve never felt like all of that has been so worthwhile before. You move off to make a cup of tea. 

 

Max follows you over to the kitchenette. He even brings the milk out of the fridge, but not before he crows, “Nice. I'm so putting that on my list of things that I'm going to tell Mycroft about tomorrow.” You look across and flush when you see him nodding to the magnetic alphabet letters that are on your fridge where you’ve spelt out Mycroft’s and Anthea’s names. You’d drawn a smiley face down on a piece of paper and stuck it next to them. You know it’s childish, but you hadn’t been able to help it. You just feel so grateful for them. Like they’re friends and looking out for you even though they’re colleagues. 

 

Still, knowing how ridiculously sad you are you snap, “Don’t you dare!” 

 

Max laughs now, all bark and no bite. “So, what are your plans for the holidays? Don’t tell me that you’re going to be doing something dirty with those two?” Again he gestures to the magnets. “That’s something that I’d rather not be present for. Perhaps you can alert me so I can change my shift?” 

 

Blushing furiously you mutter, “I don’t have any.” You grab the milk from where he’s left it on the counter and splash it over the tea, stirring it noisily. 

 

“You’re not even going to see your father?”

 

 _“Nope.”_ You feel Max’s puzzled face staring at you. Fastening the cap back over the milk you add impatiently, “Look, there’s nothing strange about it all right? My brother can’t get time off this year, so it’s simpler for me to stay away too. No point going home on my own.” You say that last part in a singsong voice and sound like you’re trying to be cheerful. Still Max stares at you. Sighing you bring the cup of tea to your lips. 

 

It’s no surprise to either of you when you go to bed early that night. You throw the tinsel that’s wrapped around your headboard down onto the floor. The colour disagrees with you and it’s a very long time, before you can get off to sleep, your mind still on what had happened between Mycroft and you. 

 

*

 

DIDN'T BELIEVE MY MESSAGE EARLIER? YOU SHOULD. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.

 

Mycroft looks gravely down at the note, which has blood red ink, that Max shows him the following morning. “This was in her post?” Max nods. “Does she know about it?”

 

“No. I thought it was best to keep her oblivious to as much as possible.”

 

“Good.” Mycroft swallows. He doesn’t want you worrying. He wants you to trust that he’s handling it all. He looks across now to where you’re working. You seem a little self-conscious this morning, peeking out through your hair-which is down today-to look around every now and again, but you’re still so diligent as you work by your computer. [The device seems uncorrupted, but they’re still trying to trace the e-mail back to the source.] You haven’t however said much of anything to him and he feels guilty for the way that things had spiralled between the pair of you yesterday, bad too when he sees how you’re trying your best again today despite his dismissive behaviour of you. Anthea stops by your desk on the way back to her own, just having collected something from the printer, as Mycroft looks back at Max again.

 

“Listen,” Anthea says to you. You glance up at her and she looks at where Mycroft and Max are deep in conversation. “Don’t take what happened yesterday too much to heart all right?” She looks back at you and you stare at her. “It was nothing really to do with you though it might have felt like it was. There’s some history between Mycroft and Max. They…kind of ended things badly.”

 

“I got as much yesterday. What happened?” 

 

Anthea looks like she’s in two minds about whether to tell you or not. Her eyes roam across to Mycroft and Max. This is _you_ though. She looks back at you. “There was an incident. It was a few years ago now when Sherlock was still at university. Mycroft had been worried about him because of his drug problem.” You’ve heard about that before, again from Anthea-it had come under the heading of everything that she’d deemed relevant to tell you about Mycroft-so it doesn’t come as a surprise to you. “He’d gone up to visit him, or to lecture him, I don’t know which.” Anthea smiles a little wistfully now, as if even though that time had been problematic it had seemed far less complicated than current events are. “Max tagged along, but when Mycroft and Sherlock were walking outside the campus, Sherlock trying to avoid Mycroft I think”-again Anthea smiles-“There was gunfire.” Her face turns melancholy. You look horrified. “It all happened so quickly and they couldn't tell where it was coming from. It was Max’s job though to protect Mycroft, so he pushed him down. Mycroft got nothing more than gravel in his hands and one hell of a fright, but Sherlock got shot in the hip. Our boss wasn’t happy with Max’s conduct and he fired him. The two had, had a bit of a difficult relationship to begin with. But Max thought that Mycroft had been very unfair and used the whole event as an excuse to get rid of him. He appealed against it, though he ended up going willingly as soon as he realized that he’d be protecting the Prime Minister. He bragged about it and after that day Mycroft and he didn't waste any time in criticizing one another. Max taunted Mycroft about Sherlock’s drug habit every chance he got, said that he’d spread it around and make Mycroft look less somehow even though a lot of us already knew about it, whilst Mycroft tried to do everything he could to get him removed from public service altogether. He was furious about whom Max was being appointed to guard next, but the service recognized Max’s worth. We might hate him for his bad behaviour; particularly from the way that he acted _after_ the incident, but neither Mycroft nor I can deny that he did his job that day and he would do it again to protect you.”

 

“How come they got shot at in the first place?” you ask, chewing upon your lip as you look at Anthea. You think that time must have been very hard for all of them. 

 

“After an investigation was conducted we learnt that it was to do with the drugs that Sherlock had been using. Someone seemed to think that he was getting them cheaper then them, which wouldn't surprise me”-again Anthea looks faintly amused now-“But it shook Mycroft up and made him throw his brother straight into rehab. No arguments. Of course as you know he’s doing a little bit better now, but he’s still a loose cannon. He worries Mycroft more than anyone else and to have to put up with Max again…well, you can see why yesterday ended up as it did.”

 

You nod thoughtfully now, but think that you’ll have to speak with Mycroft later now that you understand more. 

 

Over with Max, Mycroft is saying, “I want F/N closely watched until we know what we’re dealing with.” He glances at the female guard whose taken over from Max and is now pacing leisurely back and forth down the hallway. “I want anyone who’s on duty to be no more than five steps away from F/N at all times and I want them to be motionless. They could miss something if they turn their back. If they’re by the wall then that threat will be eliminated.”

 

“I know how to do my job,” Max growls. 

 

“I'm not wholly sure that you do,” Mycroft says promptly. “Whatever lives can be saved, and that includes your staff, any members of the public, _anyone,_ should be as much as a priority as the person that you’re guarding.”

 

“So you’d rather that I saved a member of ‘Joe Public’ over F/N?” Max pretends to be sceptical now, but he knows all too well what Mycroft’s getting at and truth be told he feels frustrated himself for what had happened that day with Sherlock. He knows that he could have done better. Mycroft and he _both_ could have, but they’d been too busy having a spat.

 

Mycroft looks ruffled. “As well as,” he amends. 

 

“What’s the deal between you and her anyway?” Max looks over at you now. Anthea is sitting back down and the pair of you are working once more. 

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. _“Deal?_ There is no deal. I just want her protected.” 

 

“She seems to like you. She was very upset about what happened between the pair of you yesterday, seemingly more than the death threat,” Max begins, wondering how far he should push this line of questioning. 

 

Mycroft finds the bodyguard’s words an impossible pleasure. He swallows, as if to steady himself, and then heads for your desk. _“F/N?”_

 

 _“Sir?”_ As you stand the pair of you face each other a little awkwardly, not knowing exactly what to say after yesterday, but knowing that you both want to try and make amends with one another. _“I”-_ you begin clumsily. 

 

“Follow me.” Mycroft, taking charge, spins around again and you move past Max and into Mycroft’s office. “Close the door.” You do so. Mycroft goes to sit behind his desk. _“So”-_ he pretends to be looking through some papers-“How did you find last night?” 

 

“A little awful sir.” Your hands wring together.

 

“Going through your things was he? _Well”-_ Mycroft shuffles his papers uncomfortably-“I appreciate that, that’s not an ideal thing to be happening, _but”-_

 

“I felt bad because of that sir, but that wasn’t the main reason.” Mycroft finally looks at you. His heart seems to be in his throat. Are you about to say what he thinks you are? “It was because of what happened between us sir. I feel awful for that document”-

 

“I can get another one faxed through. It’s no big hassle.” Mycroft’s eyes go back to his papers again. He feels redder and wishes that he didn't. 

 

“So-we’re okay then?” you ask with hope in a tone that Mycroft can’t say no to.

 

“Yes, I suppose we are.” He flicks a smile up to you. You practically bounce from his office back to your desk again. Mycroft smiles, outwardly happy for a moment, though on the inside he still feels grim from everything that is unfolding. 

 

*

 

It’s odd being the only assistant in the office who has an armed guard. As days pass and they rotate from being male to female, tall to short, bulky to not so they all share one thing in common and that is the gift of a piercing stare. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickling sometimes and you feel ill at ease whenever you glance between the gaps in the partition and see whoever it is that’s there, all folded arms and serious. Max seems to be making a better impression on some of the other female workers though, aside from Anthea of course. You’re sure that Anthea would rather take poison then ever admit that Max, with his appearance at least, comes off as being an attractive man. 

 

*

 

Towards the end of the next week Mycroft beckons you into his office. 

 

“Have you got any issues with your security?” A twisted, savage part of him that he doesn’t understand hopes that you do. How he’d like to hear you complain about Max in particular and be the one to reassure you that you hopefully won’t have to put up with the dreadful man for much longer. 

 

To his dismay however you shake your head. You have a whole host of things that you _could_ be saying. You could be telling him that you find Max endlessly annoying and invasive, that he seems to have very little tact and that you’re finding the whole process of having a guard a little suffocating. Not to mention tiring and a bit unnecessary. Its been a week after all and nothing else has happened. How long is everyone going to let this go on for? But Mycroft already knows those things and as to your latter question he’d probably just give you a similar response like Max had when you’d asked him. Tell you that it’ll take as long as it takes. Neither do you want to do anything to make Mycroft’s ill-tempered relationship with Max even worse. Whilst the logical part of Mycroft knows that it would be better too if you didn't push the issue because Max had intercepted something in your mail that day-a copy of _‘Last Christmas,’_ by _Wham!_ with a message that had said, **‘Enjoy yours,’** and both he and the guard would rather keep it from you for your own sanity. 

 

*

 

Oblivious to the continuous threat you don’t think much of going out that Saturday to get a dress for the office party that will be happening the following Friday. 

 

Unfortunately it’s Max who accompanies you. You try and think of colour, style and vaguely try to keep your mind from wondering what Mycroft would make of you if you were to wear such and such a dress. You sigh. You’ve almost got a headache from the blaring Christmas music and thoughts like that aren't helping. Neither are the bustling crowd, some of which you swear are using your shoulders as target practice. Or Max who deems it fit to give you fashion advice. 

 

“Don’t do stripes you’ll look even fatter”-

 

“Thanks Max,” you get in sarcastically. 

 

“Try the plain f/c with the off the shoulder look.”

 

You glance at him sceptically now, before you look at the dress he means. It’s nice, but you’d feel a lot safer with straps. You’re a little self-conscious about the tops of your arms. It also appears as if it might be very short…you miss the way that Max glances towards the closest shop window. He’d directed you to that shop in the first place. It’s a little more expensive and geared towards a younger market than the one you’d usually go for. A lot of times when you’re not at work you just stick to hoodies, cardigans and jeans and knowing such a thing by now Max had guided you in there, saying that you need to live a little. Now however you’re feeling all the more like you just want to run out of there. “I don’t know, maybe we should just”-

 

“Don’t look,” Max’s voice suddenly interrupts, “But take a sideways step towards me.” His back is suddenly straighter. 

 

“Is everything all right?” You look around in spite of his words, feeling alarmed. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, just kidding,” Max says. You punch him hard on the arm. He tilts his head back and lets out a very elaborate laugh. You can see his teeth and wonder what this display is for. 

 

Right on cue and just as planned-Max had sent him a text earlier-Mycroft peers in through the window that Max had looked towards before. His face slackens for a moment, as he sees Max practically roaring with glee and your fingers plucking at one of the dresses uncertainly. Then it hardens again. He wouldn't usually be at Max’s beck and call, but the guard had made it sound like you were feeling quite stressed out and might benefit from seeing a familiar face. You look perfectly fine now though, if you’d ever been differently before, so Mycroft, beginning to simmer on the inside, walks off. 

 

*

 

That Monday morning you get into work feeling quite happy on the whole. You’d managed to find what you feel is the perfect dress for the party-one that’s not off the shoulder, but still in f/c and with a bit of a riskier length than you’d usually go for, as it flares to a stop around the knees-and you’re looking forward to the party and to hopefully-in spite of yourself-getting to show it off in front of Mycroft. You’re not even feeling that fussed about having a guard right now. 

 

That all begins to change though when you see that Mycroft’s just come out of his office and though you smile at him and he almost naturally returns it he frowns instead and ends up going straight back inside his office. The door slams shut behind him. 

 

Feeling confused, as soon as you get to her, you ask Anthea, “Is everything all right with Mycroft?” 

 

“Just got here myself.” She shrugs. “Haven’t even started my computer up yet.” When she catches you still gazing in the direction of Mycroft’s office however she adds, “Probably just got up on the wrong side of bed.” 

 

“Huh.” You put your things down and shrug off your coat. You think it might be more than that. 

 

Sure enough, and only a moment later, Mycroft appears again from his office like a bear with a sore head whose hibernation has just been disrupted. _“F/N!”_ He doesn’t even bother to walk halfway down the corridor, just calling out your name. 

 

You’ve sat down, but at his tone you jump up again and go around until you can see him. His eyes fix onto you like a laser that’s locking into place. “Y-Yes sir?” He doesn’t even answer and just storms into his office. Taking that you’re meant to follow him you do so. 

 

“Close the door.” 

 

Again you follow his instruction, but you feel a little alarmed and a lot apprehensive when you see the way that he sits behind his desk and broods forwards, eyes nearly shut as if he’s mediating. He breathes out through his nose. “Is everything all right sir?”

 

“I don’t know. Perhaps you can help me figure that out F/N.” His eyes open wider now and hone in on you again. You get the sense that you’re in trouble though you have no idea what it could be about considering that it’s only a Monday morning and things seemed to be perfectly amicable between you when you’d left him on Friday. You swallow and wring your hands together. “On Saturday I thought I’d pop out and do some shopping”-

 

“That’s nice sir.” You’re really lost now. Is he going to tell you about what he’d bought?

 

“Hmm,” Mycroft deliberates. “Thought I’d wander about a little, try and be appreciative of the season if you will.” You nod, still not getting it. “Maybe even get my mother a little present.”

 

“Oh sir that’s wonderful!” You relax a little at the mention of Violet. There’s always a sort of comedic warmth to your conversations about her, so whatever Mycroft has to say can’t be _too_ bad. “She’ll be thrilled with that.” 

 

“I'm assuming that you mean she would be if I’d actually bought her anything.”

 

 _“Sir?”_ You’re once more bewildered. Perhaps he wants you to suggest what he should give Violet? Your heart stills a little at the prospect. If he wants that then surely that would mean that his level of respect has gone up for you all the more? You inwardly curse yourself. It shouldn't matter how high his level of respect for you is. 

 

“You see I got distracted F/N.” His hands fold up on top of each other upon his desk now. He eyes you intently. “I was going past some sort of clothing store”-you smile for a moment at him not having picked up on the name, you can’t know that he’s just doing that to create a false sense of safety for you-“When I chanced a glance inside and who should I see there, but one of my very own assistants. That’s all very well. I can’t fault you for going out. You have every right to, even with circumstances being what they are.” He looks grave for a moment. His eyes move off to the side, before they flick back to you again. “But no guard with you I could see. There was a man by you certainly and you were standing so close together that I happened to think for a moment that it was a boyfriend who you’ve never mentioned to me. Again there’s nothing wrong with that. No reason why you should.” He spreads his hands wide. You feel like you’re barely breathing. “But then I realized that, that man was your _guard!_ _Max._ Is there anything that you wish to explain to me F/N?”

 

“I-I,” you stammer, all fumbling hands and faltering expression, not quite sure what he wants you to say. How can you get out of all this when you don’t even know exactly what kind of mess you’re in, in the first place? 

 

 _“No?”_ Mycroft rises now. “You don’t want to explain to me why it was that instead of letting your guard do his job you thought that, according to Max who I have spoken to myself on the phone just this very morning, you would distract him and ask for fashion advice?” Mycroft tries not to succumb to his mind’s wishes and think of the way that Max had taunted him, saying how pretty you’d looked in all of the dresses you’d tried on and wondering in a roundabout way whether Mycroft would have agreed with him. He doesn’t know why that had annoyed him or similarly why he finds himself feeling so ridiculously frustrated by you now. He says instead, “Perhaps you got what he was there for all muddled up and thought that he was your personal shopper? That he was there to be your friend? Max certainly seemed to think that you’d been treating it like a nice day out. Perhaps you don’t want to explain why you allowed the both of you to be in a position where you could have quite easily been killed?”-

 

“There was a formation! It wasn’t just us!” 

 

“I'm talking Miss. L/N!” Mycroft’s eyes flash at you like spittle. “Even with that being the case the fact that you allowed one guard to be out of service and wasted taxpayer’s money, not to mention took for granted the care that everyone has been trying to show you, is downright unacceptable!” He slams both hands palm down upon the desk. The wooden oak of it gives a shudder that makes you stare. 

 

“Sir I never”- 

 

“If I ever find out that you’ve pulled such a stunt again then you won’t only have no more guards around you, but you won’t even have a job to come back to.” He takes a breath for a moment, nostrils flaring, before he continues in a harried voice, “I don’t care how unhappy you are. It is no excuse for you to behave so poorly. You need to stop being so naïve and grow up! See what is going on here!”

 

“Nothing has happened!” you protest, feeling hurt by his last sentiment in particular. It’s like your father is telling you off. Something trembles inside you. Mycroft isn’t just like all those government men. He’s ten times worse. 

 

Mycroft blows out a couple of incredulous breaths for a moment and gazes at you. Then he walks around his desk quickly and calls that day’s guard in-a blonde, tall woman in a grey trouser suit by the name of May-and the door gets shut once more. 

 

“I believe that it’s high time that you learnt properly about what’s been going on here Miss. L/N.” With that Mycroft reaches down behind his desk and places what at first looks like a normal Christmas wreath down upon his paperwork. When he beckons you closer and you do so however you see that it has little brown coffins that have been etched in the reams of black wire from Christmas tree lights that have been all wound together to form the wreath. Initially you’d believed the wire to be twigs. You swallow. “Found on your desk by myself when I got here this morning.” May and he go on to tell you about the message in the post that Max had found and the _Wham!_ single. “So you see,” Mycroft goes on a little more levelly and even hovers on the verge of being tenderer, “When you say that nothing has happened it is rather untrue I'm afraid. After the incident that happened this morning we now suspect more than ever that whoever is targeting you is doing such a thing from the inside. You need to realize how valuable your protection really is.”

 

“I do sir. Thank you.” You drift out again, May trailing you, but you feel shaken. Shaken from Mycroft yelling at you-the words are still bouncing off your eardrums-and frightened that this is a lot more serious than you’ve been trying to allow yourself to believe. You head back to your desk, but you feel breathless. Your hands shake-

 

“Is everything-?” Anthea begins to ask. 

 

“Just going to take a moment,” you decide. “I know that I only just got here, but”- Anthea nods; as if she’s telling you to do what you have to. Feeling grateful for her you spin back around again, but when May makes to dog your every move, you stop and look back at her, waving a hand. “Just give me a moment please.” Your voice sounds strained. You go off again, not noticing as Mycroft watches you from the doorway of his office or the way that he explains what the situation is to Anthea just a moment later and tells her to keep more of an eye on you. 

 

*

 

“Still here?” Mycroft’s gentle voice rouses you hours later from your work at the computer. You stop, feeling a little wary by his presence after what had happened earlier. The muscles in your fingers feel cramped. You’d barely noticed the passing of time. It had only been marked by others leaving, the sound of the cleaner’s hoover when they’d arrived and the slow dark that had descended upon the room and which now means that you’re shrouded by lamplight. Your guard stands in the corner, looking rather grumpy and probably wanting you to pack up and leave. Mycroft’s own protection shifts subtly at his movement. “I told you to go home at half-past eight.” That indeed had been when Anthea had gone.

 

You glance at the time on your computer screen with hazy eyes. It’s now twenty minutes to eleven. “That’s all right sir.” You lean back. This is easier now after all. There’s no reason for you to be afraid, not now that you know who Mycroft is. 

 

“We've come a long way from the days of reading foreign policy and discussing the detail of it in my office.” 

 

“Yes sir.” You feel stiffer at such memories. Mycroft had been so kind to you back then. 

 

“Well, I’ll be going myself in a minute.” Mycroft moves his hands, one of which holds his briefcase, the other his umbrella. He’s already clad in his coat. He begins to move off a little, eyes glancing back at you every now and again over his shoulder, as if he feels like he should be doing something. 

 

“What was it like sir?” the words come out of your mouth abruptly now. You curse yourself inwardly for asking, but you hadn’t been able to help it. It seems like part of you is still hoping that even now, and despite what had happened earlier, Mycroft might prove you wrong. Show you or tell you that he’s not like the other men at all. He stops and turns, fixes questioning eyes on you. You swallow now. “Anthea told me what happened before,” you go on. Mycroft is not surprised really, though he half-wishes that his other assistant had given him the opportunity to tell you himself. He probably wouldn't have done so of course, but he thinks that he would have liked the chance. You grab a pen and twirl it on your lap, looking down. “Why Max left,” you further prompt him. Mycroft shifts his position. “I guess it’s just something that I’ve been wondering more about today-what that incident must have felt like for you.” You think that if he’d managed to get through that with one of his family members then you might be able to get through this. 

 

Slowly he puts his umbrella and briefcase down upon the floor and makes his way over to you. He leans against your desk and you peer up at him, still clutching at your pen. “It was a little disconcerting I suppose you could say,” he murmurs now and you can tell that he’s trying to be delicate with you. “Especially afterwards. Thinking about what could have happened.” 

 

“Were you scared?” You let out a breath, only looking at him quickly, before you glance down again. 

 

“The event itself happened very quickly. One moment I was walking along with Max behind me, who was, to his credit I suppose, trying to tell me that we should go to somewhere more secure and apart from snapping at him I was mostly just trying to ignore him because I wanted to both catch up with my brother and communicate with him. The next moment I was on the ground after Max had tackled me.” You look at him. That answer had been a very elaborate one, but it hadn’t answered your question. _“Yes,”_ he admits ruefully now. “Though I’d appreciate it if you never told anyone that.” You smile a little. Confusing feelings swirl inside you. He offers you a tight sort of grimace and then looks away again. 

 

“I never asked Max anything on Saturday, _or_ tried to distract him. He was the one who was talking to me. He pulled _me_ into that shop.” You try and convince him of that at least. It seems important, no matter _how_ you feel. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft’s voice is soft. You wonder how long he’s been aware of this. Had he figured it out after your argument earlier? That is all that he says on the matter though, for when he straightens up and talks again it is in a more brisk fashion. “It might interest you to know that a lot of people who have access to this building have already been interviewed and CCTV footage is being reviewed. We will find whoever is doing all this.” He sounds certain. It makes you gaze up at him and hope. _Foolishly hope._ “Goodnight Miss. L/N.” Mycroft moves off and you can hear the pattern that his umbrella makes as it taps upon the floor. 

 

“Night sir.” 

 

* 

 

The next time that you see Max is on Friday, ironically the day of the party. 

 

He saunters in that afternoon to take up his shift and as soon as you see him you rise from your place beside your desk and go up to him, wanting to know why he’d lied to Mycroft the way that he had. As soon as you open your mouth though you hear the very loud sound of someone clearing their throat near by. You look down the corridor. Mycroft’s standing there, observing you intently. 

 

“Remember what we've discussed in the past Miss. L/N,” he says, and you take it that he means about how you’re not to distract the guards, even though it had hardly been your fault the previous time. 

 

“Yes sir.” You swallow and nod now, before you make to turn back to your desk. You’re determined to obey him and not do anything, which could upset the balance. 

 

You’ve only taken a couple of steps towards your desk however when Max mocks you in a simpering fashion, “ ‘Yes sir.’” You look over your shoulder darkly at him. “ ‘Three bags full Mr. Holmes sir.’” He does this annoying girlish flap with his hands. “ ‘Whatever you want.’ _Jeez,_ live a little.” 

 

 _“Max,”_ Mycroft calls down warningly. 

 

Max waves a dismissive hand at him. “Don’t mind me. Just trying to get this one to lighten up and have some fun.”

 

“I think that what you both should be doing is heading back to work.” Mycroft sends a level look at the pair of you.

 

You drift back to your desk, but when Mycroft is safely ensconced inside his office once more and you next look over at Max he makes that same hand gesture at you. In a bout of childishness you stick your tongue out at him. You make to look back at your computer again as soon as you’ve done so, but then you notice that Anthea is staring at you and that she has one eyebrow raised. 

 

“Anything that you need to talk to me about?” she asks. 

 

“Nope.”

 

“Good, ‘cause I think something like that crosses a line.” Anthea looks back at her screen. “Also I don’t think that our boss would be very pleased,” she says that last part _almost_ absent-mindedly, but it hits home with you. So much so that your heart gets close to stopping, but you try and be casual about it. 

 

“Y-You don’t think Mycroft would be pleased if I went out with Max?” You fiddle with your hair. 

 

Anthea looks at you as if you’ve gone mad. “F/N of course he wouldn't. Not only does it go against his rule breaking self, but this is Max we’re talking about here. Men like Mycroft don’t want to admit that guys like Max even _get_ laid.” 

 

“Oh, right, yeah.” You look at your screen a little disappointedly at that, letting out a sigh. You miss the way that Anthea smirks. She hasn’t exactly failed to notice that not only is Mycroft softer when it comes to you, but he’s been mightily troubled by what’s been going on of late too. More so than the average person would be. If it’s only so that she can get a bit of peace and go back to her phone and her relatively anti-social life it might be worth her pushing the angle of your romance together all she can tonight. Even if nothing much happens between you then it might get all those feelings out. 

 

*

 

A little while later when you’ve given up on work for the day because you can barely concentrate any more and are just fidgeting as you stand by your desk, having already changed into your dress, and Anthea is rummaging into her purse having also done the same, Mycroft comes out of his office. Head buried in some paperwork that he’s thumbing through and about to ask you to photocopy he rounds the entrance of the partition, ignorant of the louder level of noise and chatter that’s all around him. He looks up. You’d straightened up upon seeing him and are currently staring at him with your hands together. You blink up at him a little shyly and Mycroft feels dumbfounded by the unexpected sight of you looking so pretty. He looks up and down between the paperwork and you, noticing that the dress both hugs and illuminates your curves better than the trouser suits you wear a lot of the time have managed to. He swallows, before his eyes rocket up to yours again. He shuffles his papers inconspicuously. _“F/N,”_ he says, feeling prompted to speak by your stare, but he clears his throat when his voice comes out in a bit of a squeak. “Erm…why are you dressed up like that?” he settles on. 

 

“It’s for the party tonight sir.”

 

“Party… _party”-_ Mycroft’s brow furrows now, as if he’s trying to pull something up from his sub-conscious. 

 

 _“Christmas?”_ Anthea volunteers with a tilted head, feeling pleased with her boss’ reaction, but thinking that maybe she shouldn't go along with her plan if he’s being this ridiculous. Then again though he always is and you don’t seem to mind. 

 

 _“Oh!”_ It’s at that moment that Mycroft suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he is the only one working now. Bosses are mingling with co-workers, a couple of the desks have been pushed aside or joined together and one usually respectable male staff member is tossing peanuts into his mouth even though he’s wearing a smart suit still. Mycroft rolls his eyes in disapproval at the man. It really _is_ the silly season. He glances back at you again. He thinks though that there are _some_ benefits of such a thing. His lip curves upwards now. “Yes, well I suppose the pair of you deserve to have a good time.” 

 

“Thank you sir,” Anthea responds dryly. 

 

“Don’t know what I'm going to do though,” Mycroft muses, hand curving around his jaw, before he looks you up and down again. “Maybe a scotch at the Diogenes Club.” Whilst he thinks about how you look right now over and over again like a stuck vinyl record. 

 

Sensing your immediate disappointment Anthea tells him, “You sir are going to turn around, march back into your office, put that paperwork down and change into the dry cleaned tuxedo that you seem to have forgotten that I hung on the back of your door earlier.” She makes to turn him around and push him back. 

 

You feel hope rise inside your chest. Mycroft catches it and feels the same. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he mustn't be parted from you right now.

 

 _“Well,”_ he smiles over his shoulder with a soft enthusiasm at you, “I suppose in that case then I don’t have much choice in the matter.” Anthea gives the back of his shoulders one last push in encouragement now and he begins to move off again. He can’t resist taking one look back over his shoulder at you however and as he does he crashes ungracefully into the side of the partition. There’s an ‘Oof,’ sound, as Mycroft’s hands go up immediately and some laughing and jeers from those who have noticed his faux pas. He clears his throat again and hurries off, flushing all over. 

 

“Oh dear,” Anthea chuckles in a watery fashion, “I better go and make sure”- she moves after him. 

 

You watch after them, feeling a little embarrassed, but hopeful. That is until Max swaggers by your side, beer in hand. 

 

“Should you be drinking that?” He shrugs. 

 

*

 

 _“So,”_ Anthea says a little later when she’s doing up Mycroft’s bow-tie, “Your little protégée managed to scrub up well tonight didn't she? Been a long time since those crumbs on her clothes and the messy desk.” Mycroft reddens a fraction, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed after all. “You know, and you can call this me interfering if you like sir, but hypothetically speaking of course if there was someone I had my eye on who worked here then tonight would probably be a good time for me to tell them about it. Especially if I had a friend who told me that they think my feelings would be well-reciprocated.” Mycroft’s hand comes up absent-mindedly and tries to do up the bow tie himself. With a roll of her eyes Anthea slaps it back down again. “Nearly there sir. _I'm_ the friend.” 

 

“Yes, along with the fact that this is definitely you interfering I’d picked up on that Anthea. I don’t know what you’ve got in that head of yours, but the thought of F/N and I being together is an absurd one.” Even as he says it his heart dips. 

 

“Is it sir?” Anthea finally steps back. 

 

“Shall we?” He quickly offers her his arm in an attempt to get her to stop her diatribe. 

 

“With all due respect sir I don’t think it’s _me_ that should be walking in on your arm tonight.”

 

“Very well.” Mycroft feels a little confused by all her pushing. Do you really like him? He turns and leads the way, thinking about it all. He’s just about to make his grand entrance through the gap between two of the partitions when his footsteps, which are muffled by everybody’s noise and the _‘Once Upon A Christmas Song’_ that is now playing, stop dead. Max has got one arm around your waist and is leaning in to kiss you. Mycroft does not stop to see what you do. He misses consequently as you shove Max off you. For he’s already moving past Anthea and muttering, “I think you were misinformed,” in a dour voice, as he does so and heading back into his office again. He does not know why he feels so affected by the whole thing. After all he’d dismissed the whole notion as bizarre himself to Anthea only some minutes ago, but the sight of you about to be kissed by _Max_ of all people has set off something unfortunate inside of him.

 

Anthea rushes forward and as she sees you disentangling yourself from Max and then turns to look through the ajar door of her boss’s office, which reveals the back of Mycroft hunched over his desk with a sigh, she knows that this is one night that is going to have ramifications for all the wrong reasons. Sure enough it’s only a moment before Mycroft’s whirling around and striding out of his office and past her once more, grim faced and resolute. 

 

 _“Sir”-_ she tries to call him back. 

 

He doesn’t listen and much to her chagrin marches straight up to Max and you. She watches as he gestures for Max and you to follow him. The side of his face that she can see is wearing a stormy expression. You look confused as you trail him, puzzled by his abrupt behaviour, and Anthea tries to give you a meaningful look of reassurance, as you look to her for a clue, whilst you make your way past. 

 

Indeed your heart only seems to be operating on every other beat as you follow Mycroft’s quick stride down the corridor. Max sulks bad temperedly behind you like a schoolboy, hands inside his pockets. 

 

“Close the door,” is what Mycroft says as soon as you all make your way into his office. To exert his authority he goes back behind his desk and turns to face you with questioning eyes. “I might have to explain to you Miss. L/N about the rule that Max here, as the head of your security detail, must have neglected to do so. Perhaps he forgot to do it because he’s been guarding more men recently or perhaps it was a deliberate thing.” Mycroft’s eyes turn aggressively towards Max now who looks ready to deal with whatever Mycroft has got to say. _“But”-_ Mycroft’s eyes turn to you again-“Traditionally romantic relationships between protector and those under protection are forbidden. If you want to do that then it will have to be under your own watch, but you are not going to do so here. I think it would be best if Max was removed from his role immediately.” Mycroft’s eyes flick to the guard. 

 

“Oh, here we go. Any excuse to get rid of me”- Max harps on.

 

“You know the rules Max, or would you really have me believe that you’re so stupid?” Head ducked slightly and tilted Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the man, whilst his eyes bore into Max’s. 

 

To his astonishment it’s you that speaks next. “There’s nothing going on between us,” you say. 

 

Mycroft looks at you now, not believing your words. He takes a fractional step forwards. _“No?_ Perhaps it is you who would claim that I am that stupid Miss. L/N?” You open your mouth hopelessly. “But I am confident when I say that I did not mistake what I saw just now.”

 

“Then you’ll have to trust us when we say that F/N pushed my intoxicated advances away.” Mycroft does not look convinced. He knows that Max hasn’t had a lot to drink. “Believe me when I say that I'm sure she’s got her eye on someone else.” A dark look passes between Max and you now and Mycroft doesn’t know what to make of it all. You meanwhile don’t know how Max has recognized the confused feelings that you have inside you for Mycroft, but wish that he’d just shut up. You’re inches away from being sacked as it is. 

 

“I think it would be best if you both went home now and if you Max, being as inebriated as you claim to be, finished your shift a little earlier tonight.” Max nods. Mycroft sits. His eyes fix down onto his paperwork and he does not look up as either of you leave his office again, wondering what to make of it all. 

 

*

 

You’re mad with Max for getting you in trouble with Mycroft again. Mad too when you realize that since you’ve booked some time off now-you’d done so months ago, thinking that you’d need the break by then-you won’t be getting to see Mycroft until the New Year. You almost hope that an emergency at work will get you pulled back in. 

 

Over the next few days Mycroft feels miserable and confused. Oddly enough he cannot get the idea of you using your time off to try and woo whoever this mystery man you’ve got your eye on is out of his head. It pops into his mind at all the worst moments. He cannot know that far from going out because of all the hassle it involves you stick largely to home and feel despondent. All he knows is that he has to stop himself from ringing any of your security detail that isn’t Max to try and find more information about the whole thing and from using the CCTV cameras to spy on you. Who is it that you’ve got your eye on and why does the blasted information seem to matter so much to him? He cannot like you in the way that Anthea had suggested you like him can he? No, the notion would be absurd. He doesn't do things like that. 

 

Mycroft spends Christmas drinking alone and you spend it in a state of gloom, eating alone with your guard, wearing a green paper hat on top of your head and trying to enjoy the dry turkey that you’d bought a small amount of. Everything about it feels strenuous. Happy holidays it is not. 

 

*

 

 _“Hello?”_ Mycroft picks up the phone irritably on New Year’s Eve. It’s already late and aside from Anthea and him the office is mostly empty. He’s got a headache and thinking of leaving work soon. Maybe he’ll herald the New Year with a very large glass of scotch. 

 

“Oh Mykie”-his mother seems almost disappointed that it is _he_ who has picked up the phone and Mycroft feels even more annoyed at that-“Where’s that nice assistant who works for you? The one who’s always so agreeable to talk to me? _F/N?”_ Mycroft grumbles something incoherently. _“Mykie?”_ his mother prompts. 

 

“She’s off Mummy, you know? Enjoying the holidays.” His voice sounds sour now. He pictures you leaning close to a man with blurred out features as if the rain inside his head has washed them away. 

 

“I'm sure that she’d come back in if you needed her for anything,” Violet remarks perceptively. 

 

Mycroft’s just about to make some waspish comment about how he would have thought that his mother of all people would be in favour of letting his workers have time off rather than in him dragging them back in again when Anthea enters his office. He glances at her with a furrowed brow and questioning eyes, but she seems almost reluctant to talk, whilst he’s still on the phone. He can tell that whatever it is, is pressing though from the way that she shifts restlessly about from foot to foot and looks anxious. It is the same kind of expression that she’d worn when that first message had come through for you. “I'm going to have to go,” he says. 

 

“Happy New Year to you too Mycroft,” Violet says dryly and Mycroft just about senses her fond sort of exasperation for him as he puts the phone down. 

 

“Sir there’s been progress on whose been contacting F/N.” Mycroft rises. “You’re not going to like it though,” she warns. She leads him back to her desk, pulls a manila folder out of a drawer and hands it to him. Flipping it open he sees a square photo of a stern looking young Afghani man, which has been clipped to a page of A4 that has various details on it. Mycroft sees that the man goes by the name of Abas Shahnawaz. “He’s a cleaner assigned to this part of the building,” Anthea tells him in a low tone. Mycroft looks around furtively. There’s another woman-in her middle age and with brown hair-who’s typing near by. He beckons to Anthea and they move off to a more secluded nook. “Came here six months ago, but he’s still got family back in Afghanistan,” Anthea says when they turn to one another. “Shahnawaz got employed over here almost immediately with two of the other refugees. It’s not thought that they've been helping Shahnawaz with what he’s been up to. They've already been questioned at some length.” 

 

“What makes us so sure that this is our man?” he asks her. 

 

“Well, there’s a few matters sir, like the fact that he would have had easy access to this floor, F/N’s desk, her pigeon-hole. She told you how she’s got her e-mail pinned up by her computer?” Mycroft nods. “He would also be one of the last people here or be able to sneak back in and go unquestioned.” Mycroft opens his mouth. “I know sir”-Anthea raises a hand-“That the same could be said for anyone who’s working on this floor. What has attracted our attention to Shahnawaz in particular however is the fact that we haven’t been able to interview him, whilst we have been with everybody else.” 

 

Mycroft frowns. “Is this the part that I'm not going to like?”

 

“I'm getting to that part sir. Ever since the investigation has gotten underway he’s barely been in work. Though he came here on that first day he left hurriedly again and one of the other Afghani’s had to do some extra work in order to make up for it. That man said that as soon as Shahnawaz heard about the investigation he seemed to get a little bit spooked and randomly recall that he should have cancelled his shift that day because he had to be somewhere else. Ever since then it’s clear from his pass that he’s been inside the building on or around the time that all the messages came through, but he hasn’t actually showed up _once_ for his actual shift.”

 

Mycroft’s blood pressure is rising. “Why wasn’t this found out before now?” he asks her sternly.

 

“At first the other Afghani’s didn't want to talk about it sir. They were worried about being falsely accused themselves and knew that Shahnawaz would become a prime target by us as soon as they said anything whatever the case truly was. I don’t think that they wanted to believe it could be him. They said that he was a bit of a lone wolf, but polite enough.”

 

Mycroft turns and marches back inside his office, thinking hard now. He slams the folder down upon the desk and then scrapes a hand across his jaw. He turns back to Anthea. “Get police over to where Shahnawaz lives and have him taken into custody. Get them to notify me as soon as it’s done. Call Max and tell him to stay in F/N’s apartment with her, close the curtains if they’re not already shut and tell them not to go out under any circumstances. I’d hope that he’d already be doing this but get him to keep F/N away from any windows. If Shahnawaz has been off for that long and only sneaking back in to commit all these gross acts against her then in all likelihood he could be planning something on a much larger scale.” 

 

Anthea nods and hurries off again. Mycroft paces back and forth with his head down broodingly and his hands inside his pockets. His heart seems to count the seconds as much as his mind does.

 

Suddenly Anthea’s back inside his office. “Sir Max and F/N are already out. They’re at one of the bars in town.”

 

“For goodness sake.” Mycroft swallows and paces some more, trying to get the mystery man that you might have gone to meet at the bar out of his head. Should he tell Max and you to go back to yours even though it might be dangerous for you to do so? Or should you come into the office instead? At least you’d be under his protection then. But your apartment building would be much more easily secured than an office block…the phone rings just as he’s about to turn back to Anthea and tell her his decision. He picks it up at once and grows more harried as he deals with what’s coming in from the other end. He hangs up curtly and tells Anthea, “Shahnawaz is not at home. Inform Max about the situation and get him to take F/N to her apartment immediately. Have them use the quickest route. Call for a car. I’ll head down there myself”-

 

“Sir, I don’t think that’s”- one of the men on his security detail-Reese Seacat, a young, bulky man who’s tall with a gelled down dark fringe-finally steps out of the shadows to make his announcement in a firm voice.

 

Mycroft looks at him. “I'm going. Scramble a car after me and do what you will, but I'm going.” He does not know why he feels so firm on this. All he knows is that he feels like there’s no other option. The man nods hesitantly now, knowing that Mycroft’s mind is not going to be changed. Mycroft looks back at Anthea. “Keep me updated via the phone and help direct the police response as you find necessary.”

 

“Yes sir.” 

 

*

 

You feel a little aggrieved when Max tells you that you have to get home again. It had been his idea to go out in the first place. You’d only gone along with it because you’d thought that it might be nice to be depressed somewhere other than your apartment for a change. You’d even tried to make an effort and dress up a bit, wearing a black coat over a mid-length navy dress, tights and a black and white scarf. Trying, just as Mycroft once had, to get into the spirit of things despite your mood, which isn’t any better now. It had taken Max and you over half-an-hour just to get there and you haven’t even drunk more than half of your first drink. Now he’s telling you to leave. “What’s happening?” 

 

“I’ll tell you later.” Max practically knocks you off your stool and steers you out of there. 

 

His curt, abrasive behaviour both then and when you’re in the SUV rankles you. He gives you his phone and tells you what number to dial, before telling you to put it on speaker. He instructs those at the other end to go and do a sweep of your apartment, before you get there. 

 

 _“Max?”_ You try and get some more information out of him once the call has been disconnected, but he raises a finger at you and keeps glancing in the mirrors nervously. Whatever’s happened seems to have really unsettled him. As a result you’d prefer to know exactly what it is that’s going on, but realize that he won’t tell you right now. With a sigh you turn your head to look outside and notice that its begun to snow. Nearly a week off, but better late than never. You smile in spite of yourself. 

 

Finally Max is swerving into a free spot that’s just outside your apartment building. Max looks around with one hand on your waist to stop you from getting out. “Hm. Doesn't look like anyone’s been able to come yet or a couple of them would be waiting for us outside like I’d instructed them to be. I don’t want us to stay here like sitting ducks. Driving around for longer is not going to achieve anything on a night where there’s so much traffic. We’re better off taking our chances inside.” He chivvies you out suddenly and you feel surprised by the swift change from him being thoughtful to something more active. You’d almost been about to bed down in the SUV for the night, whilst he’d continued to go through all the options. You’ve barely taken a step towards the building, which looks quieter and emptier than usual and your mind is just contemplating the fact that hopefully you’ll be getting answers now, when your knees go crashing into the damp pavement. 

 

*

 

Mycroft, in a car that’s coming up the street from the other end, which had been able to get there so fast at his encouragement of the driver Alan Hargreaves-a broad shouldered, but trim man in his forties with wisps of silvery hair-jumps at the sound of the gunshot. He’d been trying to look around the front seat and see you. His throat had been in his heart as he’d caught a glimpse of the door of the SUV opening. Now, as his own driver slams on his brakes, Mycroft hits the back of the car seat hard, having just slipped off his seatbelt. Heart racing and mind numb he shifts his position. Through some parked cars he sees you on the ground, body half-covered by Max’s. There’s blood, but Mycroft cannot tell from this distance who it belongs to. He opens the car door with a trembling hand against Alan’s instruction and lifts himself, so that he is still half in the car, but able to see better all the same. When he notices that two men of Afghani descent-one of them presumably being Shahnawaz-are now dragging the both of you back to the SUV and have evidently taken the key from Max’s pocket, he calls out your name and gets out of the car properly. Alan shouts at him to get back inside again and he knows that his own security detail must all be having mini seizures right now, but he takes a cautious step towards you. You’re bundled into the back seat as your eyes flash hazily towards Mycroft and Max is thrown in there also. 

 

 _“F/N!”_ Mycroft tries once more. 

 

There’s the sound of an engine revving, a screech of tyres and suddenly the SUV is plowing towards him and Mycroft is forced to slam the back car door shut and to have his back right up against it. As the SUV charges past him he can see the whites of your eyes as you look at him in fear from where you’re half-crouched over Max breathlessly in the back. 

 

Heart thumping Mycroft throws himself back into the car. “Turn around now and get after that vehicle!” He slams his hands against the back of the front car seat. Alan hesitates. _“Now!”_

 

The driver does the quickest and screechiest three-point turn that Mycroft’s ever heard in his life, much to the consternation of the members of Mycroft’s security detail who are in the car behind, and then they’re going after the SUV. “Your detail’s going to have me for this sir,” Alan says a little nervously, his dark eyes anxious, but resolute too in the mirror. 

 

“You work for me, so let me fret about them later,” Mycroft murmurs, ironically just as a call from Luke tries to come through on his phone. The head of his security detail no doubt wants an explanation for what he’s been hearing from all the other guards. Mycroft ignores it however and gets on the phone to Anthea instead, blinking a little at the effect that both the street lights and Christmas lights that are still up have on him as the car whizzes past each one of them. He tells her what’s happened and what street they’re on, so that she’s able to track them down in the CCTV control room. Whenever traffic gets in the way or for whatever reason Mycroft loses track of the SUV for a moment she puts him back on the right track again and goes on to send both the police and an ambulance in that direction. They can hear fireworks that are being let off early in the distance. The pop-pop-pop of them makes Mycroft feel all the more unsettled. 

 

“I don’t like this very much sir,” Alan confesses when they finally get close up behind the SUV as it turns off and heads down towards a quieter suburb. 

 

“It will be all right,” Mycroft says in a half soothing fashion, though with the thrumming of his heart right now that’s debatable. He’s got one eye on the back of the SUV and can just make out the top of your head, whilst his ear is glued to his phone. He’s trying to ignore the eyes, which he can feel boring into the back of his head from the passengers of the car behind. 

 

Alan too looks unconvinced at his words. They hear a siren wailing in the distance. The SUV swerves out into the middle of the road in front of them. 

 

“Hang back a fraction,” Mycroft advises because the last thing that he wants them to do now is to go smashing into the back of the SUV and inadvertently end up killing Max and you. He hangs on in the next moment as Alan takes a corner sharply after where the SUV is now swinging into a car park of a small, dilapidated supermarket. There’s another car there, a sleeker, darker model, and as Mycroft realizes what is about to happen he says to Anthea, “We need assistance _now!_ They’re going to try and get into another vehicle.” His heart jumps in panic. On the case immediately she mumbles something. The SUV nearly crashes into a lonely trolley that’s drifting across in the breeze and Alan utilizes the brakes, so that they can avoid doing the same. Mycroft slams into the back seat. The SUV stops completely. As Alan halts the car the two Afghani’s jump out of their own vehicle, talking to each other quickly in Pashto, as they open one of the doors to the back seat. Heart hammering inside his chest now Mycroft finds himself abandoning his phone-leaving Anthea lost on the other end-and getting out of the car instinctively. The next moment he finds himself being slammed against the side of the vehicle, whilst at the same time a gunshot explodes from the inside of the SUV and Big Ben roars out the New Year in the distance. The loud sound of fireworks though do not stop the noise of the gun that had just gone off from being heard. If anything they just help to emphasize its sharp tang and it echoes out towards him as much as the pain in his chest does from being manhandled by one of the members of his security detail. Barely breathing all he finds himself able to do is stare towards the back of the SUV. Are you dead? There are shouts and you’re dragged from the far side of the vehicle towards the next. Mycroft feels relief that you’re still alive, but panicked nonetheless. He breaks free from his captor and moves across, slipping on the black ice clumsily, just in time to see who he thinks is Shahnawaz bundling you into the back of the car. The man quickly follows you inside. Mycroft does not know how badly you’re hurt, but there’s blood on you, slick and glistening all down your front. That’s all that he knows, before you disappear out of sight. Guards try and grab onto his arms. There is a screech of tires and pure chaos as the door of the vehicle slams closed once more. One of the security detail, in a desperate attempt, as the car skids away recklessly across the car park, tries to shoot at it. Mycroft ducks instinctively even though the act of violence is not directed at him. His throat feels dry. He hears you screaming as the back windscreen shatters and your shouts cause his heart to rise. Though the car swerves to the left still it carries on. Mycroft stares after the car that’s carrying you hopelessly. It avoids crashing into a lamplight and then it’s gone, disappearing down the road to the right. He looks back to where Alan is, now out of the vehicle and wheezing slightly as he leans against it. He appears like he might be on the verge of having either a panic or heart attack. Mycroft knows that there will be no going after you now. That his own security detail, one of whom has his hand pinned to the fabric of Mycroft’s arm, whilst he talks quickly via a headset will never let him. Despite his best attempts you are gone. And _Max-_

 

Max suddenly falls out of the back of the abandoned SUV. The blood comes through his ruffled shirt, all glossy but terrible, as he straightens halfway up and moves doggedly forwards a few steps, as if he thinks that even now he might be quick enough to catch the escapees on foot. Mycroft finds himself heading over to Max along with the vast numbers of the security guard like a shoal of fish. The siren of the clunky ambulance makes itself known as the vehicle finally trundles into the car park. A police car zooms past in pursuit of the culprits. Mycroft pities Max as he falls to the ground, of course he does, but what with you gone he still finds that he has little time for the man.

 

“Max, did F/N get shot?” is what he asks him as he pushes himself to the front of the babbling throng-the security detail are all shouting instructions at one another. A couple move back to meet the paramedics, but no one quite seems to know who’s in charge. 

 

“Tell her I’m sorry won’t you?” Max’s bloodied hand reaches towards him and pulls him down closer by the shirt. Mycroft’s heart skips a beat; both because of the action-he can feel the gloopy blood sticking to his shirt already-and because of the man’s words. “They pulled the gun out of my holdall,” Max tells him, eyes trying to fix onto Mycroft’s properly. “I tried to stop them.” His fingers drift from the other man to scrape against the cold ground now. 

 

“Yes, I’m sure you did, but did F/N get shot? Is she hurt?” Mycroft asks him impatiently. 

 

Max looks at him. Clearly he is not in his right mind. There are specks of blood on his face and his eyes go all unfocused. 

 

A second later Mycroft is getting pushed back as Max keels to the ground. There is some panic from the security detail, some insistence from the paramedics and some spluttering from the guard. A couple of moments later one of the paramedics rises from where they’d started attending to Max and shakes her head, strawberry blonde hair fluttering in the breeze. Mycroft’s curse gets lost in the response of wind, white snowflakes that curve down in a tunnel formation in the black sky and the babbled talk of disappointed men, saddened by a colleague lost and a poor job done. You are out there somewhere and the only one who might have been able to elaborate on your condition is now dead. Reese Seacat tries to drag him away and then put a blanket, which one of the paramedics has passed to him, over his shoulders. “I don’t need that.” Mycroft pushes it away firmly. The red shock blanket drifts down to the floor, looking like blood on the snowy carpet of the car park. “I need Sherlock.”


	2. We All Stagger On, But Sometimes We Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone tries to ensure that you still have a future, including yourself.

The sound of light, fleeting footsteps can be heard padding down the corridor. From behind the figure looks like a shadow that’s become something solid. That’s turned into a tall, tousled haired man in a dark coat. Looking directly at the figure though the opposite could be said. For there’s something angelic about that ivory skin, blood red lips, which are drawn evenly across his face and those soul showing blue-green eyes. 

 

Sherlock Holmes walks into the CCTV control room at the pit of where Mycroft works. Maps and papers have been spread out on the wide tables in the centre of the room between the square block of screens. One could almost be distracted by the amount of movement that is always flickering in the corner of your eye because of said screens, but Sherlock has been there before. He may not be in the business of being a consulting detective yet, but his brother is often hauling him in and trying to prove how he can be useful, as if he’d like to drag him up from his pit of laziness. As a result of being here before then his gaze goes past the members of his brother’s security detail, his brother’s assistant Anthea and to his brother himself. Mycroft is standing close to the head of the most distant table, papers in his hands. To an average person of loose thought who didn't know him Mycroft might not look so bad, but to Sherlock he looks a mess. Mycroft’s jacket has long since been abandoned over the back of a nearby chair, the paleness of his skin is all the more profound, his blue eyes are peeled back in a sort of focused shock and his white shirt is ruffled predominantly around the arms. He looks up when Sherlock enters. He takes in the fact that his brother is not high that morning of the New Year and breathes a sigh of relief. 

 

_“Sherlock”-_

 

“You really know how to spend the New Year don’t you?” Sherlock swaggers into the room properly, nodding at the blood splotches on his brother’s clothes and letting the heavy door fasten shut behind him. “Some people prefer a quiet scotch in a club.” 

 

Mycroft knows that Sherlock is referring to the fact that usually _he_ would be one of those people, but when he opens his mouth and goes on to speak it is in a very harried, business like fashion. “My assistant has been taken from me Sherlock.” Just saying the words makes Mycroft’s mouth feel all the more dryer. He tries to swallow, but ends up doing so in a squelchy fashion. You are gone. He cannot seem to work fast enough to find you. The police, who he has already spoken to, had barely gone after the car at all, before they’d decided that it was too risky to continue. Mycroft cannot say that he blames them. He would have probably made the same decision in such circumstances, but he feels heavy now with the weight of all this responsibility. “Time to make yourself useful.” 

 

Sherlock eyes his brother cautiously. “I already have. I’ve found her.” He takes off his scarf now and throws it on top of the table, letting his words linger in the air. Mycroft looks at him with bated breath, eyes even wider in hope. Sherlock realizes about a second too late that now is not the time for making jokes, but forced to continue goes on, “She’s right there.” He jerks his thumb at Anthea. 

 

“My other one.” Mycroft’s lips pinch tight now. This is no time for his brother’s foolishness. His eyes roam down the papers he’s still gripping onto uncertainly. 

 

“Of course,” Sherlock murmurs, indicating that Mycroft better fill him in. 

 

His brother gives him a bullet point presentation of the night, leaving out details such as his racing heart and the fear that he’d felt and still feels and speaking almost in a dispassionate daze about it all. Finally his eyes meet Sherlock’s again and he says, “We've got the number plate of the car”-

 

“It will probably be abandoned and in a few hours time be found all burnt out, leaving little forensic evidence for us to go on.”

 

“That I don’t doubt.” Mycroft swallows. “But for now”-he jabs at a printed copy of the number plate that’s on the table-“We’re currently looking at any abandoned buildings or places of interest that are in the rough direction the car went off in. Its been picked up on CCTV every now and again, although we’re a bit behind and trying to piece it all together, draw up a timeline of sorts.” He gestures to the whiteboard that’s on wheels behind him. Its got scrawled notes in Mycroft’s flourishing handwriting about times and the exact recording of the CCTV frame. It strikes Sherlock that it’s very odd for Mycroft to be this hands on, as if he’s been trying to distract himself through making himself useful. He puts that fact in the ‘bizarre’ room in his mind palace, which is full of odds and ends that have built up over the years and don’t make sense. He thinks now about how he sometimes goes in there and takes a look around. He can’t dwell on such a thing for long however because Mycroft is still waiting for his nod, so he gives it to him now. “We've also alerted the docks as to descriptions of Shahnawaz and F/N, whilst the as yet unidentified man who was with Shahnawaz tonight was found to have died in the back of the SUV. I only heard two gunshots that came from the enemy. That makes it clear then that between him and Max”-Mycroft pauses and bows his head in a strange, uncertain moment of regret-“F/N had not been injured all that severely at the time of her abduction, if at all, but”- He feels bad that Max had, had to die. Bad for the last conversation he’d had with you where he’d dismissed you so harshly from his office. Bad that this is happening. 

 

“That was a couple of hours ago now?” Sherlock fills in. 

 

“Precisely.” Mycroft is grave. “It is imperative then, all the more since we know that Shahnawaz is armed and most capable of violence, that we find F/N and bring her back into the fold as speedily as possible.”

 

They come up with a plan. There is already enough of a timeline now to justify waking two members of your security detail who are currently off duty and sending them in a car to scout around, seeing if they can find a clue or even the car itself. Sherlock will also make use of the contacts that he already has from less desirable parts of town. If they come across something more substantial such as a possible location for you then it will be relayed in and back up will be requested. 

 

The people in the room start to flow out until it is just Mycroft and Anthea who are left there. Anthea steps back from the table, satisfied by the beginnings of their plan and feeling more hopeful about you being found. Mycroft however remains in place, looking just as grim as he’s ever done as his gaze goes between his papers and the whiteboard. He looks dissatisfied about something, as if even now he thinks that they could be doing more. 

 

“You should go home sir,” Anthea breaches into Mycroft’s thoughts softly. 

 

“Mm.” Her boss mutters distractedly. She goes around and pulls the papers out of his hands now, before she puts them on the table. 

 

“I mean it. There’s nothing more that you can do right now.” She’s a little firmer with him. 

 

“I’ll just stay here a little while.” He’s scatterbrained and his eyes drift vaguely across the papers on the table, as if he’s considering picking them up once more, before he turns and heads towards the whiteboard instead, hands burrowing inside his pockets. 

 

 _“Sir._ You’ve got blood on you. I’d really suggest”-

 

“There must be something more that I can do,” his voice grows loud and snappish now, hands clenching inside his pockets. He freezes and turns around on his heel. He looks worn and apologetic. They hold each other’s gazes for a long moment, before he scrapes a hand across his jaw. “But there _is_ something I can do isn’t there? Tell F/N’s family.” He looks off to the side. Perhaps for the first time since the gun incident with Sherlock, Anthea realizes that her boss looks completely lost. 

 

She decides to take control. “It’ll be light in a few hours. No point disturbing them until then and hopefully we’ll have better news to give them at that point. We’ll be able to either tell them that we've got F/N or are close to getting her at least.” She takes a few steps towards him. Thinks about putting a reassuring hand on his arm, but doesn’t. Mycroft nods, looking almost relieved about the delay. “Go home sir,” she urges him now. His expression becomes more resolute and determined as if to say that he won’t, not if there’s still something that can be done. “If you go home now then you’ll still be able to come back in early, tell F/N’s family, probably deal with the police being annoyed that we’re conducting our own investigation”-Mycroft looks faintly amused now-“And be on top of everything else instead of getting yourself so tired when all you’ll be doing is waiting around. I’ll call you if we get anything in the meantime.” 

 

“All right.” He takes a step back, running his hand over his face again. “I suppose that sounds sensible.”

 

“It’s what F/N would want sir.”

 

Their gazes lock. In between them for a moment hang all the possibilities-if you are dead, if you are alive. They see all the options-the finding of your body, the funeral, the feeling like they’d let you down for eternity…the hole that, that would no doubt leave because there wouldn't be as much joking around in the office. No one following Mycroft, learning so much from him. Mycroft’s heart aches now. He cannot think long down that road because it's too frightening. He hasn’t been this terrified about possible consequences since his brother got shot. He thinks to the other path instead. It is hazy and unknown, obscurer perhaps than the other one, but at least you’d still be alive and able to walk it too. He’d like that. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he says with a weary half-smile and a nod. 

 

*

 

He does not get much sleep. For a long time he just paces around his apartment and keeps checking on his phone. His mind seems sure that it isn’t on the right setting for him to hear or feel it should it go off, despite the fact that it’s in his hand and each time he sees that it’s on the highest volume it could be it does little to reassure him. In an attempt to stop himself from fretting he makes himself a cup of tea and throws himself into an armchair. He sees the image of fear that you’d had on your face as the car had zoomed past him. He can’t get it out of his head. It is the dratted shock that puts it there. Eventually, and from sheer exhaustion more than anything else, he falls asleep just as the first light of dawn rises…

 

*

 

Mycroft startles awake. His body is half-curled up in an awkward angle on the armchair, head turned into his shoulder, legs splayed out in front of him. The jangling racket, which had awoken him, turns out to be his phone vibrating on the side table and Mycroft makes an incoherent, grumbling grab for it. 

 

 _“Yes?”_ He clears his throat to get rid of the gravel. “Mycroft Holmes speaking.” Feeling a little more awake now he leans back into the armchair. The fresh day makes him aware of the cobwebs, which linger from the night before-his shirt, which reeks of stale sweat, so much so that parts of it have turned yellow and the warmth of his ruffled clothes that never leave him. 

 

“Sir it’s Anthea. There’s no new news about F/N, except to say that we hit a dead end with what was left of the CCTV in the North-East of London, but people are starting to regroup in the CCTV control room at the office. I thought if you’d like to meet us there? I’ve also made contact with F/N’s father and brother. They’re coming in to see us too.”

 

Mycroft is just about aware of the fact that he should have been the one to get in touch with your family, before he becomes more conscious of the fact that he has overslept. It is coming close to being ten minutes to eight. He should already be in work. Already trying to find you. He has no right to still be here, having a lie-in. “Yes, right. Thank you for that update Anthea. I’ll be there shortly.” He puts his phone back down on the side table and heads to the window to look out across the street. There is so much grey-grey sky, grey road; even the buildings opposite look like they might seep into the colour. It makes him feel all the more glum now. He sees that his usual black car is waiting by the kerb for him. Abandoning everything but his phone, which he takes with him, Mycroft heads down, out of the building where his apartment is and across to it. As he lessens the distance Alan winds the window down, observing how Mycroft is still in his clothes from the night before. “Alan,” Mycroft nods at the other man, already feeling pressure from not having properly started the day. “Just give me a moment would you? I need a quick shower. Have you been here long?” 

 

“Since I was supposed to be sir.” Mycroft cringes a little at that. Alan looks tired. His skin is pale and drawn. “I hooted the horn, but”-Alan shrugs-“Never mind sir. It’s been a rough one for us all.” 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft is grave, “Yes it has been.” 

 

Alan looks at him sympathetically. “You go on and have that shower.”

 

Mycroft nods and turns around now. He is halfway across the street, before he spins back again. “You doing all right are you? After last night?” 

 

Alan looks surprised by his show of concern. “I’ll live sir.”

 

Mycroft looks like he might say something else for a moment, before he heads back around again. Silly shock. He makes his way to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. It is then that he becomes attentive to the fact of how much a mess he really looks and is slightly horrified that he’d gone out in such a state. His usually neat hair is in a state of high disorder, the auburn strands curling in high arcs. His eyes look a little bloodshot, face stark white and he becomes more alert to the blood splatters that are upon his clothes. Not just blood stains though. He can see Max’s fingerprints there too from where the other man had grasped at him. He touches at it and then at his cheekbone. No blood is left there when he moves his hand away. It’s all dry now. Shaking his head he decides that it will be fruitless to just do a quick tidy up. He strips and rests the phone down on the edge of the sink. He keeps his gaze fixed on it as much as he can, whilst he showers, eyes going to it even though the soap tries to obscure his vision. He dries himself roughly, hands gripping the towel to his hair and rubbing at it fiercely. Finally he drops the towels and nude moves back to his bedroom, taking his phone in a warm hand and slinking about cautiously until he turns to his oval-shaped mirror once he is fully clothed and just fastening his watch to his wrist. He is dapper now in his fresh white shirt, blue tie-he’d picked out a maroon one at first, but the colour had left him feeling rather queasy, so he’d gone for blue instead-black trousers, jacket and waistcoat. He takes a moment to admire his still drying hair and to appreciate what being clean and grime-free feels like again, before the inevitable guilt sets in. He is appreciating the simple pleasures when you are not able to do so yourself, when he should not even be hesitating a second in his search for you. He gives himself one last cool look in the mirror and heads off. 

 

*

 

Once there Mycroft falls into an even more gloomy contemplative state, ignoring the looks he gets from people. No doubt word about last night is starting to spread, though no one asks how he is. Not that he’d really expect them to. As he robotically swipes his card through each of the protected doors and strides down intermittent bits of corridor his mind turns all the more to you, the matter of finding you and how it is that he’ll handle your family. He likes to think that you’re still alive, that he’d sense it in his gut if you weren’t and believes that, that first point will be an important one to get across to your family. He must provide them with a staunch hope that you’re alive and that everything will be all right. That he hasn’t let you down. 

 

He marches into the CCTV control room. Anthea is on hand overseeing the group of men who are once more around the wide tables. Sherlock is one of them, but Mycroft’s eyes have barely landed on him when he becomes aware that one of the men who’s turning around to see him is your brother Robert. 

 

“Robert.” Mycroft moves forward at once, shaking his hand. Up close it is easier to see some of the shadow that encroaches upon the younger man’s face. Some of the spark seems to have gone out of the Foreign Secretary. He is no longer the puffed out peacock, but the unsure and worried brother. Mycroft’s heart goes out to him in a way that it hasn’t done before. He can certainly relate to that feeling. “I'm very sorry to be seeing you in such circumstances, but rest assured that everything is being done to find F/N. I'm confident that we’ll have her back with you soon.” He cups at the man’s hand with his other. 

 

“Just how much is being spent exactly?” comes not Robert’s voice, but that of a man who’s stood next to him, who’s slightly shorter, plumper, and still with his back turned to Mycroft. His hands are inside of his dark trouser pockets. His brown jumper, which is over a muddy coloured tie and grey shirt looks itchy. 

 

“Cost is of no issue,” Mycroft persists, not wanting anyone to think otherwise. 

 

“But it should be Mr. Holmes.” The man turns around now. Mycroft’s breath draws sharply inside his chest. The man has your eyes. Your eyes on a more weather beaten face with a long, narrow nose, thin lips and the beginnings of a whiskery beard that is in a lighter colour than that of his graying h/c hair. He looks like a disgruntled hawk. “It _is_ Mr. Holmes that I'm talking to isn’t it?” His eyes become beadier now. Mycroft nods. The two of them shake hands. The stranger’s hand feels unwelcoming, clammy. He lets out a sudden laugh that makes Mycroft jump. “Then I beg you, do not waste your resources on her. Get on with the business of assisting the country to run and tell the police to do the same.” 

 

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft blinks, wondering if he’s heard correctly. He’d been sure that this man was your father, but now he doubts himself. Does he just want to see you so much that he’s seeing bits of you in other people? He looks at those eyes again. No, there’s no mistaking it. 

 

“The name’s Christopher Mr. Holmes, and you heard me.” Christopher swallows. “I'm sure it’s what F/N would want. She probably doesn’t even want to be alive now considering that she once tried to commit suicide.” The air goes out of the room. Mycroft feels like he sways on the spot, as his eyes look at first Anthea and then Sherlock. His assistant appears disconcerted, his brother uneasy, but curious about what is unfolding here. 

 

Mycroft looks back at Christopher and says, _“No.”_ Just, ‘no.’ The shock that he’s been trying to shake off comes back to him fully now. For it cannot be true. The woman he has grown to know over these few short months, the woman who is funny, hard-working and so, _so_ eager for it all cannot have thought about anything so terrible as bringing her life to an end, let alone have set out and tried to make it happen. 

 

 _“No?”_ Christopher looks around now. He raises his eyebrows. “People have a whole history Mr. Holmes. A beginning, middle and an end. Before she came here, before you even met her in fact she was seeking a better life, searching for something more. She’s never been one to accept her place, as I'm sure you know by now, but she couldn't find it with us. Grief had shaken her up so much after she lost her mother”-for some reason now Mycroft pictures you being trapped inside a snow globe-“That those tendencies and desires of hers were exaggerated. She got _so_ lost”-Mycroft wonders if Christopher had ever tried to find you, whether anyone had-“That when Robert came home one Christmas and she went missing it was he who eventually located her at the train station. She was about to jump onto the tracks and wait for oblivion, so don’t tell me ‘no’ Mr. Holmes. I know what happened to my daughter. She is not worth the amount of time and hassle that it will take to find her.”

 

*

 

Somewhere not all too far away now your eyes flicker open and you let out a groggy groan. You are on your back on the floor of a cell. You can just make out a stream of light that comes from the tiny, rectangular window at the top of the wall to your side, before you lose consciousness again. 

 

*

 

Sherlock can see it from his brother’s dazed reaction, from the way that he tells everyone that if they have nothing else to add and know what their next move should be in terms of finding you then they should simply leave, that there is something more going on here. 

 

Robert, looking very meek now, leads Christopher out. Suddenly it is just Mycroft, Sherlock and Anthea left in the room. Mycroft looks at Anthea. 

 

“I didn't know sir,” she says in reference to your suicide attempt. 

 

He hums and fidgets with one of the papers at the corner of the table. He feels thrown, weak and weary. Your face looks more obscured in his mind. It is harder to see you as he remembers. Harder to see the happy, eager face of the woman who had teased him. Harder to see the prettiness of the woman in the f/c dress when now there are scars there too. “I don’t know any more,” he finally admits. “Perhaps we did not know F/N as well as we thought we did.” He feels suddenly angry with himself. Everyone else he can forgive for not being so observant, but how could _he_ not have spotted anything? How could _he,_ with his mind palace and cleverness, not have seen anything at all? Maybe there was someone else who had-someone else you’d told-he thinks now. He jolts back to life abruptly. “There’s one other person that we need to tell about F/N.” He clears his throat. Anthea and Sherlock monitor him curiously. “One other person who might be expecting to hear from her and who might be worried if she should not get in contact with them.” His eyes, which hadn’t been able to look at Anthea in a while, finally now do so. “Locate the man who met F/N in the bar last night. Once you have his address return to me.” He needs to meet this man, to learn about what sort of person you might have confided in, to learn about _you_ and to learn how to appreciate the real you better, not just this side of you that you’ve had on display at work. Maybe he’ll be able to find you then. Mycroft clocks Sherlock, out of the corner of his eye, looking distinctly unimpressed now, but ignores him. As much as the pressure to be unemotional in front of his brother weighs down upon him he knows too that he needs to allow himself this much for his own sanity. 

 

“There was no man sir.” Anthea dumbfounds him now. “I’ve looked at the footage myself, for Shahnawaz or anyone who may have looked like they’d been working alongside him. There was no one who appeared suspicious. As for who F/N communicated with she only did so with Max. They ordered one drink and then left as soon as I informed them about what was going on.” 

 

Mycroft feels once more at a loss. “There must have been someone there,” he mutters. His fingers toy with the corner of one of the papers now. “There _is_ someone, even if he wasn’t there at the bar last night. Someone who F/N admired and wanted to be with. Max said something about it. That she wouldn't be interested in his advances because she already had her eye on someone.” He tries to remember now if that’s all that had been said or if there had been anything else there that might be important. 

 

“Oh for God’s sake.” Anthea distracts him in a state of disbelief. He looks at her incredulously. “He was talking about you sir!”

 

Mycroft’s mouth gapes. _“Pardon?”_ he splutters now. As he stares at her he thinks that it cannot be. 

 

“It was _you!”_ Anthea insists, stepping a little closer now, whilst Sherlock looks both amused and pained by what is going on in front of him. He wishes that he could be anywhere else. Mycroft still appears nonplussed. “F/N _loves_ you. I wasn’t just playing about at the Christmas party. I was trying to push you towards her because I knew that you both liked one another, the whole office did. Quite frankly I just wish you’d get on with it!”

 

“She nearly kissed another man Anthea!”

 

“Exactly, _nearly”-_

 

“It was hardly as if- _how?”_ He has to know what makes Anthea believe what she does. 

 

 _“How?”_ Anthea splutters incoherently. 

 

“Yes, what makes you think that-?”

 

“Try the fact that she hangs off your every word, how she tries her best to look after you and indulges your mother. The dress she wore at the Christmas party. No one wears a dress like that if they don’t want to attract someone’s attention.” 

 

 _“But”-_ Mycroft is still unconvinced. His head feels like an unusual jumble. He is starting to feel overwhelmed by it all. There seems to be more questions these days and no answers. Do you really love him? Not just like, but _love_ him? The phone on one of the tables in the room rings suddenly. He picks it up absent-mindedly, still thinking about what Anthea’s just told him. “Hello? Mycroft Holmes speaking.” As he waits for an answer the blood surges around his body in a more faltering fashion. He can feel it rushing to his ears. Feel the uncertainty of his heartbeat. Have you been found? Is he about to receive some very bad news? 

 

“Look here Holmes. I appreciate that this is one of your own, as well as the fact that the hostage is a relation of the Foreign Secretary,” the gruff voice of Superintendent Humberto Hedges from the Metropolitan police force says, and Mycroft can picture the large man inside his office, spare tyres of fat drooping down over his chair, walrus moustache bristling in a reddish brown annoyance as the ex-military man considers how to say his words, “I'm aware then that of course there will have to be some crossing between your channels and ours, but some of your men seem quite unwilling to co-operate. There can be no keeping of information or we’ll find a way to do this through working around the resources that you provide. Are we clear?”

 

“Quite clear Superintendent, but if my men haven’t been willing to participate in the questioning given by yours it is only I presume because they have a job to do and are trying to do it without being cross-examined and made to feel like they’re doing something wrong.” An off duty member of Mycroft’s security detail walks into the room. Mycroft is just about aware of Hedges grumbling on the other end, before he cuts him off abruptly, “I'm afraid that I'm needed elsewhere Hedges. I’ll have a word with the team and do my best to keep you informed, as long as the same courtesy is provided by yourselves?”

 

“Why of course, that was”- Mycroft gets away from the man’s brisk voice, by hanging up. 

 

“Sorry to interrupt sir,” the member of the security detail says, “But this just came in.” He shows the piece of paper to Mycroft. 

 

At its head there are the words: **At the moment she is whole, not like my home country, which you have allowed to become fractured. You have just less than twenty-four hours to get two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. If you fail to arrive at the address-** the Docklands in East London- **at exactly twenty-minutes past eight tomorrow morning and deposit the cash in the bin that has been marked there then she will not be whole for very much longer. We start small. Consider yourself lucky to be warned. This is only the beginning.** Beneath there is a picture of your sleeping face. A stark ray of light provides you with the brown hue of wherever you’re being kept in. 

 

Mycroft stares at you, feeling torn. On the one hand he’d love it if he could just pay that money and get you out of there. Not only because of what Anthea’s said and because he wants to get to the bottom of that, but because in an odd way you’re family too. But he is getting fed up of being pushed around, first by Shahnawaz who though he might have been through the mill of late fails to understand just how complicated things really are and by the Superintendent of course. “We do not negotiate with terrorists,” he says, pushing his own desires aside and settling into a state of grim infuriation. 

 

 _“Sir”-_ Anthea tries to get him to remember _who_ they’d be paying the money for. 

 

“The sister of the Foreign Secretary has just been kidnapped Anthea.” Mycroft, remembering what the Superintendent had just said tries to minimize you. “If that is not an act of terrorism then I don’t know what is. You might find it a relevant thing to tell me that she loves me, might think it appropriate to try and confuse the issue here, but it doesn’t matter what she or even _I_ might feel”- He lays the ransom note down on the table without looking at it.

 

“Of course it does!” Anthea gets out and he looks at her daringly. Still Anthea goes on, “I am not going to let you become unfocused and think there’s someone else when there isn’t, and I am not just going to let you throw her life away because of mere protocol!” She is more beside herself now than he has ever seen her. 

 

“You really think that I would let F/N die no matter how I was feeling? It might serve you well to remember that I have already gone against protocol for her by chasing that SUV the way I did last night. Normal procedure would have meant that I’d withdrawn at once and stayed out of the whole thing.” He takes a step towards her. His breath feels tight inside his chest. Of all the things she has ever said to him this has to be one of the worst accusations. 

 

Anthea bows her head. “Of course I know that sir and I appreciate it, but”-she looks grim underneath his gaze, yet unfaltering-“I think if it came to it then you _would_ put the safety of a group over her one individual life. You’d think it was the right thing to do even though I'm not sure in this instance it is because of what you’d be losing, but the group we’re talking about here is the nation. You can’t get any bigger than that.”

 

“I'm well aware of what we’re talking about.” Feeling disgruntled he tells the guard, “Get the address and the note checked out. I doubt there will be any fingerprints on it except ours now, but you never know.” 

 

“With due respect sir if there are increased patrols around the docklands then the specifics in the note will likely be changed”-

 

“If you think that we’re going to walk in there without knowing what we’re getting involved in”- Mycroft blusters now, glancing at Anthea. Can’t she see that he’s trying to act? That he’s doing his best under everything? That this is not easy for him?

 

“That’s exactly what they want sir,” the member of his security detail goes on. “If we don’t comply then not only will we be more at a loss, but the hostage’s life will also be at risk.”

 

Mycroft bristles at him merely calling you a ‘hostage,’ even though he himself had played that game not so long ago. Once more he feels irritated with himself. He stares at a point past the note. “We do not negotiate with terrorists,” is all that he repeats, before he swivels around again and begins to stride out of the room. He catches the dubious look that Anthea gives him as he moves away and it makes him stop. “You think that this is not me putting F/N first? If we can get her back then of course I will try to take that route, but she’d want us to do our jobs Anthea,” he tells her, begging her to see reason now. 

 

“I think she’d want you to rescue her and place a bit more value upon her life,” comes the curt reply. It makes Mycroft feel wounded, before he gets a hold of himself and marches out of the room. He wants to rescues you, but there are rules in place for a reason and his happiness shouldn't even come into it. You can’t love him. 

 

The member of the security detail leaves too just a moment later. 

 

“I think you’ve just sent him on a suicidal mission where we’ll be lucky now if both F/N and he come out alive,” Sherlock informs Anthea.

 

Anthea doesn’t reply. She believes that she’d had to say those things. 

 

* 

 

You’ve been awake properly now for a while. Sat up cross-legged you’ve taken in the rusty coloured walls, the red bucket that’s in the corner of your cell, which you’re trying not to use and the fact that the roof must be leaking for droplets of water run down the walls. Your cell isn’t very large. Just a square really. The only light comes from the window that you’d noticed earlier. It’s a shade paler than before, so you’re taking it that it’s a bit later in the day to try and stop yourself from panicking from the fact that you don’t know how much later or even what day it is. Is it simply the day after you’d been taken or much further along? Your throat feels ragged and dry. You’re thirsty, but not particularly hungry. You analyse yourself. Perhaps it _is_ just the day after then. You try and steady your nerve and get awkwardly to your feet. You’re a little bit wobbly and stiff and your body is smarting from the rough treatment that you’ve been given. You’re not hurt though beyond the bruises that you’re sure you’ll get. Just shaken. You try and get yourself together and do a little walk-a square within a square if you will. You stop where you’d started, eyes going to the door. It looks heavy. You try and not think of Max or of what had gotten you here in the first place. You’re pretty sure that Max is dead now and getting upset and blaming yourself won’t help you. You have to be selfish to survive. You cross to the wall and put your ear to it. You listen. Is that the sound of more water? It’s possible that there are more cells. Suddenly you wonder if there are _more_ prisoners. The thought sends a shiver down you. 

 

 _“Hello?”_ You listen for a moment. There’s nothing. 

 

You go to the other wall. You can’t hear water coming from that one. It’s possible that you’re at the end of a row of cells. That the water would find it more difficult to breach those that are further along. Swallowing you move to the door. It’s rusty and old. Like one of those you’d find in an ancient prison. There’s a circular window with a swivel cover that’s shut now. The door though, to your surprise, is open. You take a step back in shock. Your hand reaches for it again. With your heart pounding like a wild animal inside your chest you’re about to draw it open, just a tiny fraction, when a thoughtful voice that comes from behind you makes you jump. 

 

“What to do next. It’s a difficult one F/N.”

 

You whirl around. Mycroft’s standing there, looking as smart and as ready to dedicate his brain to the task as ever. _“Sir.”_ You lower your hand from where it had automatically gone to your chest. The suddenness of him being there has shocked you, but the fact that he is there at all strangely hasn’t done so. 

 

He looks at you levelly now. “You could go through the door, have a poke about, try and discover where you are.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

 _“But”-_ he takes one hand out of his pocket as if to emphasize his seriousness-“You don’t know what’s out there, or _who,”_ he says that last bit with a brush of delicacy. “They might have left the door open deliberately so that you’d get into further trouble”- 

 

“What would you do sir?” you cut off his rambling. 

 

 _“Me?”_ He looks at you sharply. “I think you know the answer to that one F/N.”

 

You come to with a gasp. The detail of the cell and yourself are the same you’ll later discover. Where the water comes from. The open door, how you’re feeling…but Mycroft of course is not there. Of course you would have thought of him. You laugh suddenly. Of course he would have come through in your sub-conscious. He’s your mentor. Ever since this started you've been seeking solace in Mycroft and your relationship with him, letting the ups and downs of that paint a picture in your mind more than anything else. You've been using him as a _distraction,_ but in spite of all that he's the one government man who, despite his faults and your uncertainty about him sometimes, has truly been kind to you. You feel a searing ache suddenly. You might never see him again and you know, in that moment, that if you ever get out of there that you’ll get over yourself and tell him the truth. You realize you owe the pair of you that much. Owe future you. Future Mycroft if you ever get out of this hovel. You’ll tell him that you love him. Mycroft is not the same as your father and brother. He’s different. You know that now. Waking up in here has somehow woken you up consciously too. 

 

*

 

_“Sir?”_

 

It is later. Mycroft is brooding inside his office. He’s supposed to be doing work. Indeed he’d started off doing such a thing, but he’d soon slowly lowered his pen and stilled once more. His weariness had held him there as he’d thought of you. Now Anthea is by the door. “Yes?” He moves his chin off his fist and stares at her. 

 

“There’s been a development.” He really focuses now. “F/N’s apartment has been broken into. Do you want to see?”-

 

“We should have had it guarded.” Mycroft rises. _“Yes,”_ he breathes heavily in response to her question, “I’ll see.” If it had been anyone else and if Anthea hadn’t said what she had earlier then he probably wouldn't have seen the point in it. After all even though he’s observant he doesn’t know what your apartment usually looks like. He won’t know then, unless it’s completely obvious, whether anything has been stolen, but this is you and he needs to find out more about you. Clad in his coat and clutching at his usual umbrella he takes one of his usual black cars to your apartment. 

 

Forensics are there. It’s a regular hive of activity, people in forensic blue suits and gloves coming and going in all directions. Some by the wall, studying things, looking for any marks or clues. Still, Mycroft just looks in at it all for a moment, wary suddenly about stepping over the threshold. Swallowing and getting a hold of himself he finally crosses through. He’s being ridiculous. 

 

He’s pounced on almost immediately by a tall man with chocolate coloured eyes and premature silver hair. When he takes hold of Mycroft’s arm and Mycroft looks at him he sees too that the man is dressed from head to foot in one of those hideous blue suits, which is on over his police uniform. “Sir, who are you? I'm Sergeant Greg Lestrade and I'm afraid that you can’t be in here.” It’s ironic because in just a few years time Mycroft will come across this officer again, this time in a promoted role and in relation to Sherlock’s first proper case as a consulting detective. He will remember this time and remember that this officer is at least one who gives people and cases a fair chance, but for now, oblivious to such things, he treats him rather dismissively. 

 

“I won’t touch anything.” Mycroft shrugs him off. He makes to move forwards, taking in the books that are out on the coffee table and wanting to get a closer look at them, but-

 

“I'm afraid that’s not really the point. If the fibres from your clothes or hair fall out and brush against something”-Lestrade tries to pull him back now-“You could be a suspect.” 

 

“Just one moment.” Mycroft escapes his clutches. 

 

“I appreciate that you might care for her, but”-

 

“I'm her boss,” Mycroft says shortly, not wanting to think about how much he might care for you in that particular moment. He makes to turn back, to get out of there after all if that is what the dratted man wants him to do, but something on the fridge catches his eye. He makes his way towards it. Lestrade curses and hurries after him, dogging his every move. Mycroft’s energy further slumps when he sees how you’ve written Anthea’s and his name out with the fridge magnets. He touches at the side of the ‘M’ carefully; imagining how you’d gently brought it together with all the other letters and for one moment he can believe that you might have loved him. But too he gets a sense of what your job really means to you. Of how much you need it. He can see it in that moment and it moves him because he knows the same feeling well. 

 

“Just her boss?” Lestrade’s voice comes softly from beside him and Mycroft realizes that he’s now standing on his other side. 

 

He withdraws his hand abruptly and clears his throat. “Yes. Just her boss.” He tries very hard not to think of what Anthea had said. It is too hard to think of whether you might like him properly because of what is going on. You might die, which would make the whole thing starkly irrelevant in terms of any future with you-or he thinks that it would, of course the truth is he would never get over it, that possibility-whilst he can’t bear to think of your death either. “I spoke to some of your colleagues last night about it all. Mycroft Holmes.” The two shake hands. 

 

Mycroft leaves shortly after with Lestrade’s eyes boring into his back. 

 

*

 

“I'm going now,” you tell the empty space over your shoulder. You swallow in a steadying fashion and turn to the door. You pull it open just a crack with trembling fingers and slip through into a more open space than you’d expected. A large rectangle of a room, which, true to your reasoning, has a row of cells down one side that you are at the end of. Torches hang on brackets along the far wall. Your instinct, which you can just about feel over the roar of your heart and blood in your ears, tells you to head for the concrete steps that wind up on your left through a small archway. Trying to keep silent you begin your ascent, cursing softly when your foot makes a sound against a shard of crumbled step. You listen. You can’t hear anything that makes you want to run back down though, so you move forwards. Up and up you go, peeking out of the intermittent windows for the sign of a clue, but the day’s light has turned into black already. Finally you come to a door and after listening for a moment you go through that too. 

 

You come out in some sort of Entrance Hall. You see two slight gaps in the wall further ahead, signalling entranceway's, whilst to your left sits the side of a grand staircase. There is old-fashioned ruin all around, dusty paintings and torches that are stuck in time, but it is the wide wooden double-doors that look like they could belong to a front entranceway that get your attention. You creep forwards now, keeping your eyes fixed on them and your body close to the shadow of the staircase. Finally you come right to the edge of your protective hideaway and your eyes flick about you. Only the eyes of the paintings regard you. It’s like you’ve just been left to your own devices. You make a break for it, running down as fast as you can to the wooden doors. You slam into them noisily and try to open them, but they’re shut. Looking over your shoulder frantically and making a sound of annoyance you jangle them, before you let out a loud, garbled cry when a piece of fabric suddenly digs into the front of your neck. It pulls you back against a sturdy figure, which you try and bite and wriggle free from. 

 

“Stay still! I'm sorry I can’t let you go! I can’t!” a man with a foreign accent says, struggling with you.

 

In your head Mycroft tells you to be quiet, to save your energy, but you can’t help but shriek from the shock and exertion of it all. It’s not long, before you see spots in front of you. Then your vision gets covered in black entirely. 

 

*

 

No one from Mycroft’s office or security detail goes to pay the ransom the following day and the morning after that Mycroft is in his office, once more trying to work, when a package arrives. Anthea brings it in with an apprehensive, but stern look about her face and Mycroft, standing now, clears a space on his desk for it. They both stare down at it for a moment, looking at it as if it is a bomb that threatens to go off, before Mycroft takes the initiative to begin to pull the flimsy brown covering off of it. It strikes him instantly, that smell of death, and he gags, drawing the back of his hand to his mouth. Anthea steps back with watery eyes, looking horrified. Delicately, and with a pounding heart, Mycroft draws the wrapper back further, enough to now see what has been sent. It is your bloodied scarf-the same black and white one which Mycroft remembers that you’d worn the night you’d been taken-and there are bits of your cut off hair scattered all over it. Letting go of it Mycroft retches again and momentarily turns away, senses reeling, hands on his knees, full of the fact that he’s let you down. When he looks back it is to see that the normally cool Anthea has got tears in her eyes. 

 

“I think-I think we better get someone from forensics to come and bag this up. I don’t want anyone inside this room until they get here.”

 

Anthea nods, trying to get a hold of herself. Neither of them say that this has now almost certainly moved to become a murder investigation. Anthea goes off, trying to be efficient and trying not to think already about how she should have pushed Mycroft more and made him pay the ransom because now the ultimate cost has befallen you. She makes the call that Mycroft has just told her to. 

 

He barely glances at your scarf again, but he can feel the tears swimming in his own eyes as he follows Anthea out. He closes the door softly behind him. He has failed you. Trying to remain calm he moves to the gap between the partitions, thinking that it would be sensible for him to just sit down somewhere until the cavalry arrives and he has to direct them. The only space free is yours. Why couldn't there have been someone else off or out today? He looks at your desk with the crushing sense that it will always be vacant now. Until they get someone to replace you of course. Anthea, feeling his presence, stands, already on the phone and gripping at the instrument tightly. She directs him to her chair with her hand, but he shakes his head. He cannot just sit opposite from where you’d used to work. From the space where you’d teased and joked, from where you’d acted so diligently…he turns abruptly now, feeling like he might be sick, and makes his way through the double doors and towards the bathroom. It is a relief when there is no one else there. 

 

He lets out a breath, grips onto one of the sinks and keeps his head bowed for a moment. He doesn’t know if the vibration he can feel is coming from his insides or his outside. All he knows is that he feels terrible in that moment and like the weight of the choice he’d made to not pay your ransom is pushing down on him. He realizes suddenly that he’ll have to phone your family. That he has a responsibility to. Still not over the shock of it all himself he gets out his phone and dials Robert’s number, wanting to make himself useful. 

 

“Robert L/N,” comes Robert’s curt voice. 

 

“I-erm, it’s Mycroft, Robert.” Mycroft swiftly realizes now that he probably should have thought about what to say, before he’d made the call. Stupid shock. 

 

There’s silence for a moment. “I take it this isn’t about work?” Robert tries to joke feebly. 

 

 _“No.”_ Mycroft clears his throat and tries not to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. He turns away from it in the end. “No. A-A package arrived Robert. This morning. It contained F/N’s scarf. There were-There were some bloodstains and hairs on it. We think that both those things belong to her”-

 

 _“Christ.”_

 

 _“Yes.”_ Robert’s breathless tone has made Mycroft feel rather the same now. He turns, leaning back against the sink, free hand gripping onto the porcelain. He has to keep talking though, so he says, “Naturally, and as I'm sure you can imagine, the investigation has changed its focus. I just wanted to keep you informed. You’ll tell your father about it?”

 

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” Robert confirms with a soft heaviness. 

 

“I-I'm very sorry Robert,” Mycroft says, his voice low. Robert makes an indistinct sound on the other end. “I know,” Mycroft starts again, “Well I know that perhaps you don’t have the most understanding of fathers”-

 

“There’s nothing wrong with Father,” Robert says starkly now. 

 

“I just meant-well, I could see before that you-that you cared about F/N and I just wanted to leave you with the hope that I think she felt the same way about you. She respected you. She stopped you from getting sacked. Made it her every effort to”- Mycroft tries to reassure Robert despite his own feelings about it all.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I cared for her!” Robert exclaims. “Of course she felt the same way!” 

 

“Of course she did and you do, but I just know how difficult these things can be. I wanted to say that I can relate to it with my brother and I know now that”-

 

“Face it, you know nothing Mycroft.” Robert sounds disgusted with him. “Your brother’s still alive.”

 

“Well, yes, but”- Robert cuts off Mycroft’s musings by hanging up the phone. Mycroft slips his own back into his pocket, feeling worse than ever. “That went well.” He rakes a hand through his hair. He returns to the office to find that Anthea has now put a pile of papers he needs to read for work on his desk alongside a small glass of scotch and his favourite pack of cigarettes. If it had been anyone else but Anthea who had invaded your desk right then he probably would have snapped at them, told them off loudly, but the three of you have been on so much of this odd journey together and so he accepts his place there as she wants him to with a resigned reluctance, sitting down and trying not to focus on anything that isn’t his. Your chair is on a higher level and he has to lower it to fit his legs comfortably beneath the desk. 

 

“For the shock sir.” Anthea nods at the scotch and cigarettes. 

 

“Mm.” Mycroft hates the shock. He stares at the amber liquid, which bobs up and down a little after his activity with the desk. Anthea comes around and puts a hand upon his shoulder. He can feel people watching them and he says a little more loudly, his voice wobbling on a tightrope between being high-pitched and low, “I think I’ll leave them if you don’t mind. It’s really too early to be drinking. In any case it’s not as if I knew her all that well.” He pulls a pen out of his inside jacket pocket, forcing himself to think of your suicide attempt again, and drags the papers towards him. With her heart breaking Anthea squeezes his shoulder, before she lets go of him. 

 

*

 

There is a sombre mood to the day. The car you’d been taken away in is found burnt out in the exact spot that the ransom was supposed to be paid in. It is just another reminder to Mycroft of how by not paying the ransom and by making the choice he had he might have indirectly killed you. He doesn’t know if that particular weight will ever lessen inside him. He texts Sherlock-usually he’d call him, but he’s afraid that his voice would betray his emotion to his little brother-and tells him to come off the case, before he makes the declaration to Anthea, “Unless there is anything they want from us then I think we should let the police handle this now.” He stares hard at a boring sentence in the middle of a document, which he has to sign the bottom of, once again trying not to think. “We have done all we can after all.” They have done nowhere near what they should have. He should have protected you. Treated you like you were Sherlock. His hand squeezes into a fist. _Christ,_ why hadn’t he done that? He doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. Mycroft tries to remind himself of those two things. This is nothing. This is easy. The shock and the tears rapidly bubbling up by his eyes tell him otherwise. 

 

“The body-?” Anthea tries to be delicate with him, but she would have thought that Mycroft would have wanted to do anything he could to restore it to your family. 

 

“Is their responsibility,” Mycroft says, his voice hard. Your body has very little to do with you any more. It is not your soul, not your essence. 

 

Anthea considers protesting for a moment, but when she observes how Mycroft’s hand is still clenched she chooses not to. He has been through enough today. “Yes sir,” she says quietly.

 

*

 

That night Mycroft’s eyes become haunted as he can’t stop thinking about how he’s ultimately killed you. He takes up scotch until he finally becomes numb. 

 

*

 

 _“Sir?”_ Anthea says two days later once Mycroft has been re-installed inside his office. It smells fresher and less like death now, though the scent still clings there to every paper and filing cabinet. Even to the Queen’s portrait. “There’s something you should know about the-the investigation regarding F/N.” She’s apprehensive now, but at the same time there appears to be a note of excitement in her voice. He doesn’t understand it. 

 

As has become a regular thing now whenever Mycroft hears your name or thinks about you he tenses. This time he tightens his grip upon his pen. “Unless the body”-he can’t say ‘her body,’ definitely can’t say _‘your’-_ “Has been recovered then I'm afraid that I meant what I said the other day. We should be leaving this to the police.” He glances up at her briefly, before his focus returns to his papers again. He tries to settle himself back down again.

 

Anthea looks momentarily perplexed with him. “I think”-

 

 _“Anthea,”_ he says with a heavy sharpness, looking up at her. He doesn’t want to be reminded. He just wants to carry on. 

 

 _“Fine,_ but I think you’ll really regret not hearing this sir.” Anthea takes offence now and makes her way back towards the door. 

 

Her hand is reaching out towards it when Mycroft releases a little sigh and he can no longer resist asking, “What have you discovered then?”

 

Satisfied Anthea turns back to him. Mycroft’s gaze tells her not to wear that look. She gets a hold of herself, before she reveals, “The forensics on the scarf came back. Although the hair is a match for F/N’s, the blood isn’t.”

 

Mycroft tries to not get his hopes up. “But the _smell”-_ his voice becomes twisted. 

 

“The blood came from a small creature. Rabbit more than likely. Your brother’s doing some of his own tests on the scarf right now”-

 

“I told him not to”-

 

“He’s not giving up on this sir. None of us are.” She gives him a look as if to say, _‘Are you?’_ “He thinks that he might be able to narrow the location down from it. Something to do with the soil that was found on it apparently.”

 

As they have been doing a lot over these past few days Mycroft’s senses seem to get away from him for a moment. His head spins. His fingers scramble a little against the papers on his desk. He feels odd all around. “Tell Sherlock to contact me as soon as he has anything and we should probably start getting a team ready to go wherever he should send us. I’ll call Luke, start to make the arrangements.” Anthea begins to move out of his office. “Anthea?” She looks back at him. “Don’t-Don’t get your hopes up too much about this will you?” He stares at her imploringly now, though he is telling himself more than anything. “I know what you want-what we _all_ want,” he confesses in a low tone, “But just because this is happening doesn’t mean _that_ will.” He tries to quash the image of kissing you that has risen as easily in his mind as the sun’s rays flare up every morning. 

 

“No sir,” Anthea says, but she leaves his office with a small smile. For days she’s been torturing herself with images of your final few moments, of what you might have gone through. Your face, full of agony and fear as you’d breathed out your last in a strange place, far from friends or family has been in her mind every time she’s blinked or been sitting at home late at night in front of the TV, unable to concentrate. It feels good then to have some hope again and to once more be able to focus on the possibility of getting you back, of you still being out there somewhere and alive. 

 

Mycroft, knowing how she feels, stands and almost floats as he retrieves a glass, pouring in a measure of scotch. In an odd moment that’s full of a sort of tentative victory he very nearly laughs. Taking the drink back to his desk he sits once more, but he does so not in the office of physical reality, but in the one that can be altered by his mind palace. 

 

“Did you really give up on me so easily?” an indignant and knowing voice comes. _Your_ voice. Its been so long since he’s heard it. 

 

Mycroft looks up and there you are, standing by the entranceway, leaning against the side of it, hand on your hip and how he remembers you, unscarred. “F/N, I”- He feels warm. Warm as he stares at you, studies your unblemished skin, which has even got a little blush about it and those sparkling e/c eyes. “I thought I’d know if you would be dead.” He stares down at his desk, feeling a little ashamed of himself. “But when the evidence came I was the first to doubt”-

 

“I learnt from the best didn't I?” He hears you coming forwards now and he looks up again. You slide your hands onto his shoulders. “I may not know any martial arts, but I do know enough to look after myself and I'm certainly going to fight when someone attacks me. I’d do anything I could to come back here because believe me I want to live Mycroft.” His eyes widen. “Everything that happened was a long time ago.” You kiss him on the cheek. After the initial surprise of it his whole body relaxes. He nuzzles his head close towards yours. “That doesn’t mean though,” you whisper inside his ear, “That I don’t need any help at all.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes slam open. “We have to find F/N.” He sees with an embarrassed sort of surprise that Anthea is watching him from the entranceway with a look of amusement about her. 

 

“Glad you’re on board sir,” she says dryly. “Did you phone Luke yet?”

 

“You hardly gave me a chance to do such a thing,” Mycroft reprimands her now, his hands swatting against the paperwork more than doing anything with it. 

 

“I thought it would be too early for scotch sir?” Anthea nods at his glass with a knowing smile. 

 

“What is it that you wanted Anthea?” Mycroft frowns. Has she come in here just to tease him?

 

“Only to say that your message has been conveyed to Sherlock sir.” As she leaves the room with another one of her, ‘I-know-too-much’ smiles Mycroft knows that the answer to his unasked question is of course, _‘Yes.’_

 

“Oh F/N if you could see the boss now,” Anthea says to herself, as she sits down at her desk again, before her face grows grimmer and melancholy once more. 

 

*

 

As the day drags on however and the initial mix of both excitement and relief becomes something that they, much to their chagrins, get used to, Mycroft turns solemn once more. Even if you are still alive all sorts of terrible things could still be happening to you. 

 

Getting home and feeling serious he pours himself a glass of scotch. You could be being kept somewhere small and dank, tortured, raped, on the verge of death, passing between this life and the next...In a rare fit of distress now Mycroft sits on the floor, his back to the settee, rather than in his usual armchair. He takes a sip of his scotch, before he puts it down on the floor beside him. He doesn’t know about love, but he still wants you safe. That’s a perfect ordinary reaction isn’t it? As your boss of course he cares about you. He- 

 

“Not giving up on me again are you?” It’s you. Of course it is. You have wandered in again, this time with a drink of your own. Red wine. The shade of it shimmers and sloshes in the low light. You freshen your lips with it and then put it down on the coffee table, before you sit next to him on the floor. 

 

 _“No…”_ Mycroft says, though he feels as if his emotion is being unplugged again like the computers at work for the night. It would just be like him to fall in love with a ghost he thinks. A figure that’s not even there any more. He can’t love you can he? 

 

“You’ll find me,” you say quietly, “I know you will.” You tilt your head down against his shoulder. At the same time your hand tangles with his, stroking at the skin around his ring. 

 

He kisses at your hair absent-mindedly. “How can you have so much faith in me?” he wonders as he pulls away. “We barely even know each other, not really.” 

 

“We know enough.” You’re dismissive now. “Besides, you’re Mycroft Holmes. Why wouldn't I?” You lift your head up, eyes shining against his. 

 

He lets out a bit of a mocking sigh as he pulls away. “Mycroft Holmes can’t do as much as you think he can.”

 

“You can do enough, my love, for me.” Mycroft’s eyes widen at the term of endearment. You squeeze at both his forearm and hand. As he turns his head towards you, you peck him on the lips twice fervently, before you settle your head down on his shoulder again. 

 

As you hold onto him, partly in his head and outside it, he finds himself ringing Mummy. 

 

“Hello? Mykie? Is that you?” Just the sound of his mother’s enquiring voice is enough to get Mycroft’s breath tightening inside his chest again. He makes a sort of shuddering sound. “Yes,” Violet says in an aside to Edwin probably, “I think it’s Mykie. Mycroft have you been drinking again?” She turns her attention back to him. “Are you drunk dialling me like you did that time you’d had too much scotch?”

 

“No.” Mycroft chuckles. His face falls more serious again though when he thinks of how amused you would have been to hear that story. “It’s-It’s F/N.”

 

“That lovely assistant of yours?” Violet sounds intrigued now. “What about her? Where is she?”

 

“That’s the thing”- Mycroft hesitates. He wouldn't usually discuss things like this with his family, but you are still holding onto him, rubbing your hand softly up and down his arm and now you stop and kiss him encouragingly on the shoulder. He doesn’t understand how you can both be so much there and not so, but he knows that he must go on. “I don’t know.”

 

“What are you blathering on about Mycroft?” Violet asks him sharply, before she checks, “Are you sure that you haven’t been drinking?”

 

“No, no, well I have, but not that much.” He is doing a terrible job at all this. “I mean there was a bit of an incident.” His whole body tenses and for a moment he can’t feel you, he can’t feel anything at all, but then you are there again and you have your arm wrapped around his middle and your head buried against his chest. It is a more comfortable weight than the one, which rests uneasily inside of him. “F/N is the sister of the Foreign Secretary you know?”-

 

“Pompous arse,” Violet declares and Mycroft feels a glimmer of amusement inside him now. 

 

“Yes, well that’s what I thought of him, but really he’s”-he realizes that he’s going off on a tangent once more-“Well, anyway, that’s not the point. What I'm trying to tell you Mummy is that F/N’s been abducted and I don’t”-

 

 _“Abducted?_ Goodness.” He can almost picture her sitting down now. 

 

“Yes.” The tears begin to stream down his face. He hiccups uncomfortably and scrunches his features up. The feel of him vibrating sends your head shifting off his chest. Your expression becomes concerned at the sight of him and you shift to be kneeling in front of him. There, and in between his legs, you cup at his face, starting to wipe his tears away with your thumbs. You stare at him and kiss the back of his free hand. For a moment he tries to cup at your cheek with it, but then the vision of you fades and he realizes that his hand is trying to grasp onto nothing. He lowers it. There is no you. No wine on the coffee table. There is just _him,_ struggling to keep his emotions in check, whilst his mother asks him to tell her what had happened. She demands to know in fact. “That is not the point Mummy,” he says finally. “The point is that there are so many things that I don’t understand.” His mother makes a sound as if to say, _‘Are you only realizing that now?’_ “Her father said that she once tried to commit suicide”-Violet gasps at the other end-“And I don’t know how I could not have observed that misery inside her or not suspected anything. I don’t know why she never confided in me. Her father’s horrible, but I don’t know how things could ever have got so bad that she’d try and do that. Anthea says that F/N loves me and I don’t know if it’s true or how that can be possible.”

 

A long pause meets his garbled words. “Well, things look clear enough to me. You need to get her back Mycroft. Things will be better once you’ve been able to have a conversation with her,” Violet says firmly, and he feels it again. That motivation that he’d felt just after the first vision of you in the office. 

 

“Yes Mummy.” He comes off the phone to her and stands, drying his tears as he phones Sherlock. “Brother mine please tell me that you have some news?”

 

“I was just about to call you,” Sherlock says grimly. “We've got a location.” 

 

*

 

This time when you wake you know that things are different. As you sit up groggily in the dark, whilst your eyes adjust in the same cell that you’d been in before a chunk of your h/c hair falls out and just drifts to the floor. You raise your hand and even more strands come undone. You feel a frisson of fear. What has been done to you? Is whatever it is still happening? Are you in the middle of some weird sort of conversion process where you’re being drugged and God knows what else? You try and sit up now, but you quickly fall back again, landing on your backside with a thud that sends you gasping. Your whole body is stiff and hard in an agony that won’t subside. You swallow a bit. You’d thought you were in the same cell, but this one is without a red bucket, so it could easily be a different one. There’s still the same damp though…You rub at your eyes. You have to get out of here. 

 

As you pull your hands away fingers slide onto your shoulder and a voice murmurs into your ear, “I know it’s hard, but you have to get up now.” It’s Mycroft. You know that he’s probably just inside your head, but you nod, relieved for his presence. At least he’s still there. 

 

Being careful as you move your body you place one hand on the floor and move your feet further away from your chest, hoping that once they get far enough they’ll propel you into a standing position. Instead you just end up falling clumsily on your side. You cry out, closing your eyes and thinking you’ll just wait. _Please,_ can’t you just wait? But Mycroft’s there again, just behind you now, both of his hands close to your shoulders. 

 

“F/N you have to get up now. I'm sorry, but you must.”

 

It hurts though. You’re aching all over and you feel feverish and stupid. You mumble something incoherently, before you draw your head down upon the floor. You can feel him pushing you. He is the voice inside your head that’s telling you to move. “My-croft,” you croak. Suddenly you smell it. Smoke, crisp and plentiful. You sit up. Your head spins and you’re nearly sick. You clutch onto your stomach. There is sweat now on your forehead. You pant. _“Mycroft?”_

 

“Move now,” Mycroft’s insistent voice returns. 

 

You try once more, but again you land on your side. “I _can’t!”_ you wail, tears spitting in the corners of your eyes. 

 

“What are you going on about?” A bad tempered Shahnawaz suddenly strides into the room, causing the heavy door to crash back with ease, as if he’d merely flicked it. His eyes are wilder than what you last remember them being, and that’s saying something because the last time he’d been torturing you. When he sees you’re afraid they grow calmer. “I'm sorry. This has gone too far. I never meant”-there’s a ragged sort of stubble on his chin. You can see it more as he ducks his head. “You believe me?” Like a little boy he looks up at you. Uncertain you nod. He’s so thin, skeletal. The collar of his grey jumper, which shines a little out of the darkness at you, is clad in sweat, but it's the dagger he's carrying in his hand that worries you. “This is the only way. Just make it easy on me, yeah?” He steps towards you. You crawl back a little, seeking the shelter of the wall. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft says in your ear. 

 

“I know,” you tell him firmly. You cannot let Shahnawaz kill you. You will not be his lamb to the slaughter. The fire is his insurance policy. If you somehow manage to escape this cell or for whatever reason he cannot go through with it then he’s hoping you’ll die there. But you cannot allow for that. This has to end now. 

 

Your captor looks at you a little oddly. Eventually he shrugs. “Doesn't matter if you’ve lost it. I still have to do this.” He lunges and makes to grab you. 

 

At the same time that you hear Mycroft yelling at you in your mind you cry out too. Your shouts, and Mycroft’s, which you realize are actually Shahnawaz’s, become a mix of voices that echo all around you and all you know is that suddenly you’re tussling with Shahnawaz on the floor, having head butted him and dislodged the dagger. It goes flying from his hand and the both of you try to get to it, whilst keeping the other back. Shahnawaz’s large hand goes over your face. Your foot knocks against his leg. You dive underneath his arm and though he nearly jumps on top of you to keep you back your sweaty hand finally manages to grasp onto the dagger. The smoke fills the room like a morning mist. You can feel the heat from the fire. You begin to cough. Shahnawaz grabs a fistful of your hair, but his earlier act comes back to haunt him as your hair comes away in his hand. You spin around-the cry you let out the only betrayal of your body’s pain-and brandish the dagger at him. On your feet now you hear Mycroft whispering in your ear, telling you to be careful. You nod. Shahnawaz, on his knees now, begins to pray. Caught off guard you study him for a moment, and then, in a foolish act you hasten to the door, leaving him alive, but not quite whole behind you. 

 

The entirety of the cavernous room is taken up with thick, angry black smoke. Coughing violently your eyes water now and you almost drop the dagger as you feel for the wall. You realize that you had been in the same cell after all when you reach the walls edge. 

 

“That’s nice”- you hear Mycroft muttering impatiently in your ear, _“But”-_

 

You wave a hand at him. You know that you have to keep moving. You don’t need him to remind you of that now. You stagger across, searching like a blind woman for the archway. Finally you locate it and nearly on all fours you clamber up the steps. You freeze when you think that you hear Shahnawaz saying that you can’t leave him. For a moment you regret not using the dagger on him, but it goes quickly. Even now you don’t think you could kill him. Your pace increases, hand scrabbling on occasion against the wall to further help push you along. 

 

You reach the Entrance Hall. You can pick out things in the flames and one of them makes your heart sink. A beam of timber has fallen diagonally across the main entrance. You won’t be able to reach the wooden doors. Trying to get through a window on the ground floor will also be difficult since flames lick around each door. You’ll have to go up. Coughing abrasively and trying to use part of what’s left of your ragged dress to cover your mouth your red eyes roll in their sockets and the heat sears you, slamming into your skin from all directions as you make your way to the staircase. There are patches of flames here too and you wind your way around them as delicately, but quickly as you can. Your lungs scream for oxygen as you reach the top. Suddenly you hear another shout through the roar of sound. Hands nearly on your knees as you struggle for breath you look over your shoulder. You see the murky figure of Shahnawaz at the bottom of the stairs through the smoke. He’s looking straight at you. Letting out a cry of panic you scramble towards the closest room. There might be no flames there, but the smoke has infiltrated it. There’s a window at the far end, but it’s one of those fiddly, old-fashioned ones, all pretty and something you’d admire if you were just a visitor. You’ll have to smash it. As quick as you can you dash back to the landing and grab a torch from the bracket. You can hear Shahnawaz calling for you through the maelstrom, his crooning voice still reaching you…

 

*

 

Mycroft is horrified when he sees how the old Victorian house they have been on their way to is already encased in flames. Anthea is too, but for once she reacts quicker, phoning for both an ambulance and fire engine. The joint operation between themselves and the police was supposed to be one of stealth. The black car that he’s in with Anthea is one of several that’s been snaking its way down narrow roads and in between hedges in the more rural part of the city’s outskirts, invisible bar the glow of headlights, which stretch out like the illumination from a lighthouse. It was meant to reach the place silently. Then there would be a group of men that would go in. Mycroft was supposed to be helping co-ordinate those on the outside. That was the job that he’d given himself even if no one else had. That was the job that was meant to provide him with one final distraction, before he learnt what’s happened to you. It was not supposed to be like this, with the place on fire, before they’d even properly arrived and ashes falling like the snow that is now steadily descending from the cold, black sky. They’d predicted of course that there might be some hassle-a retaliation of sorts-against them, as soon as their presence was detected, but they’d hoped not to have to deal with anything like that for as long as possible, if at all ever. Mycroft gets out of the car, taking his umbrella with him. His hands gloved and wearing a thick three-quarter length dark coat over his usual suit he does not know what to do. He looks at the house. Part of him wants to dash boldly inside and find you. Once more the thought of being your hero appeals to him, but the logical part of him, the part that always wants to be safe and in reality is a bit of a coward, makes him hang back. 

 

There comes a smashing noise of tinkling glass suddenly from the back of the house and Mycroft hurries around there, slipping on the sodden driveway and grass as he does so. 

 

What he sees when he finally reaches the pile of glass, which lay like shards of ice on the grass, takes his breath away. You are there. Your dress looks like a thin, limp and very dirty navy nightgown. Your face is dusty from the smoke, eyes wide and scared and your hair torn in uneven segments and bedraggled as you wield a torch that you’ve got from somewhere. You use it to make more of a larger, clean hole in the windowpane. Mycroft watches you work in a stupefied silence for a moment, feeling that odd swelling of pride that hasn’t flooded into his body for so long as he stares at you. A small crowd gathers around him-Sherlock, Anthea and Greg Lestrade amongst them-but he continues to stare up at you and still you don’t notice him. Finally, and satisfied with your work, you throw the torch aside and look out with a breathless pant. Your eyes widen when they lock onto his. He can’t know that you’re thinking it’s odd how you’re seeing him as a member of a crowd, how your mind is being more creative now. Thinking about how you will surely be falling to the cold, hard ground because Mycroft can’t be there. Yet what choice do you have? He doesn’t hear the sound that comes from behind you, doesn’t see the way that Shahnawaz has picked up your discarded torch and now uses it as a weapon, but he does see the way that you disappear from his sight for a few moments and he feels the panic of it in his heart now. Feels his mind willing his straining eyes to catch some glimpse of you. How proud he would have been if he could see the way that you tussle with Shahnawaz. If he could see how in a show of strength you manage to push your captor away from you, shoving the torch back into his chest, your eyes almost amber in the flames and so very powerful and hard. Your mouth bared in a pant. Proud to hear your growl of, “I will not die.” 

 

But Mycroft, not privy to this, mutters, “I’ll go in. I must go in,” after a moment or two of not seeing you. 

 

“You can’t,” is the only thing that Greg gets the chance to say, before they both hear a shout and look to see you again. At a run you throw yourself out of the window. It is an odd thing, but as it all happens so fast, and as he throws his umbrella aside, ready to catch you, so much more hits him in that moment. It takes you falling through the sky towards him for you to realize that Anthea had been right all along-he _does_ love you and it is suddenly both a terrifying and glorious thing. He does not know why it had taken him this long to see it. Why he hadn’t been able to admit to himself that his interest in you is beyond merely professional. That he’s longed for you to do well in more than just a business sense. That that’s why he’d felt so uneasy when Max had burst onto the scene and been all over you. But it has and now he sees flashes of memories-that first night where you’d first done that favour for him and he’d felt so above you, that first note of surprise when you’d shown your initial capability to him, those heady days of him almost enjoying tutoring you, looking forward to those private talks in his office, that threat and all the confusing feelings that had come after it, that dress-staining his mind and encased in your laughter. Suddenly things make so much sense. 

 

Then you go slamming into him and you both go tumbling down onto the ground. Mycroft feels his back protesting and sits up, letting out a grunt. Suddenly you are in his arms, your eyes shining as they lock onto him and breath coming out in a burst and he knows that you love him and he loves you too. Heart swelling in both pride and relief and feeling lighter than he’s done in days, he presses his lips to yours. 

 

It’s no more than a momentary thing though. He finds that he has to withdraw pretty quickly because you stink of smoke, but it appears to have been enough. For you, as Lestrade checks the estimated arrival times for the ambulance and fire engine, stare at Mycroft like you can hardly believe that he’s there. Then you touch at his cheek, mutter something incoherently that sounds suspiciously like, ‘You’re real.’ 

 

“I am,” he manages to get out, glad of it in that moment, before you slump unconsciously against him. Feeling a panic inside his chest he catches you for a second time, drawing your head up with his finger. Anthea and Sherlock help pull you off him and then the ambulance finally arrives and you’re being transported on it. 

 

* 

 

You spend a couple of days in hospital. During that time Mycroft decides that a better place for you to be spending the greatest part of your recovery might be at his parents quaint little cottage in the north of England. It’s peaceful there, and, if he’s honest with himself he fancies the idea of getting you away somewhere secluded to a place where other than himself only his family and those who really care like Anthea will have access to you. He makes some plans to borrow the medical equipment that will be needed and get your doctor on board. 

 

On a dull day he finds himself in the back of an ambulance, riding with you and Robert, who he’d encouraged to come along. He’s hopeful that Robert, being forced to stare at where you’re unconsciously strapped to a gurney for the long journey to the Holmes cottage might put his priorities in order, or at least re-align them a little. He can tell that Robert feels a bit intimidated by the whole process from the way that he keeps ducking his head every time that Mycroft gazes at him, which the eldest Holmes brother makes sure to do on a frequent basis. 

 

Finally they come to a stop just as the skirt of darkness is sitting down on the night sky and Mycroft sees how Robert looks at you uncomfortably. Wanting to show off and provide a good example Mycroft says, “I’ll carry her out instead of us having to take the whole thing outside. If you could set out the ramp?” he directs that last part at one of the paramedics. The strawberry blond haired youth nods and does just that. A female paramedic with brown hair unhooks you from all the machinery and then very carefully Mycroft unstraps you from the gurney. Feeling how his breath hitches inside his chest when his face comes to be so close to yours, his nose no more than an inch away, he gently scoops you up in his arms. He curls you in towards him, feeling protective and disembarks from the ambulance, ducking his head down towards you and taking care not to bang it or do anything that might result in him dropping you. 

 

His parents, who he has thankfully forewarned and got their approval for your stay through appealing to his mother’s more nurturing side at the promise that she’d soon have a guest she could fuss over, have come to stand outside the cottage door.

 

“She’s been very brave,” he tells them.

 

Violet nods, lets out a little steadying breath and begins to take action, drawing the door back wider and beginning to clear any obstacles that he might find in his path from there to the spare bedroom, which you’ll be staying in. 

 

He carries you gingerly all the way and nods gratefully at his mother who peels back the duvet, enabling him to lay you down and then tuck the covering back around you again. He takes a moment to get it right and then steps back to appreciate his efforts. 

 

For a while there is a flurry of activity. The paramedics move in and out of the room as they set up the equipment for you, Violet tries to feed them all, whilst she takes their instructions on board and Edwin tries to be helpful and not get in the way. Finally Robert and Mycroft are left alone with you. 

 

Mycroft looks down at your sleeping face thoughtfully for a moment, before he says to the younger man, “I hope you see that you’ve got a chance now.” Robert looks at him and Mycroft meets his gaze. “To have the sort of relationship that you want with F/N? To not waste the opportunity that you’ve been given? A fresh chance?” 

 

Robert exhales. He knows that Mycroft knows how breathless and relieved he’d been when he’d first been told by the other man that you were all right, knows how he’d had to stop the tears from squeezing out of his eyes, but he knows something else too. “I think you could also do with taking on that advice.” Mycroft flushes, but looks stern now. This has little to do with him. “I think she resents me.” Robert turns his head away. 

 

“She will continue to do so if you don’t make the effort. Why make excuses any more?” The fact that he senses deep down that Robert has been caught in the middle between your father and you just as much as you have been between Robert and your father all this time is the only thing that keeps him pushing. Well, that and the fact that he wants what’s best for you. 

 

“I think I will go soon, but thank you once again for what your family and you are doing for her.” It’s not as if he’d have wanted his sister to be with a government man, but after being surrounded by them your whole life it’s hardly surprising that things have ended up this way. In any case it’s not as if he can complain. Mycroft’s done more for you than he ever has. “Phone me if there is any change or if she needs something?”

 

Mycroft nods. That goes without saying. “At least think about what we have discussed,” he calls after Robert now, as the younger man moves to the door. Robert looks back at him. “It doesn’t have to be the same story forever Robert, not just because she doesn’t have a good relationship with your father, but it will be if you let it.” He knows the same is true of himself. 

 

“I’ll consider them thank you.” Robert looks serious enough, but he says the words as if he’s about to depart from some government meeting they've just had together. He leaves. 

 

Knowing it will take time, but still feeling a little disappointed by his progress Mycroft looks at you. A strand of your hair, which is growing back at a steady pace, has fallen down across your forehead and he pushes it back. “I tried my dear,” he informs you in a tone that suggests he’s not about to give up and will mention the issue again whenever he should next see Robert. 

 

*

 

When you wake for a moment you think that you’re back in the Victorian house and trapped inside a living nightmare. You’re in bed inside an old fashioned room. The bed is comfortable, all plush with a lovely duvet and not like the lonely four-poster one that you vaguely remember being inside the room that you’d stumbled in inside the Victorian house. But the wallpaper is a slightly peeling traditional one with a pattern of yellow flowers on a white background and something about it makes you feel uncomfortable. There is also a small chandelier dangling down like a rocking spider from the centre of the ceiling and the most traditional wooden furniture all around. Feeling sick you try and get up properly. It’s then you realize that you’re attached to a machine. Your brain can’t tell you that it’s probably just one to monitor your breathing, it just says that this is something else that you need to be wary of, as it does about the line that’s just beneath your collarbone to provide you with nutrients. You let out a staggered breath of panic as you try and release yourself from it. The machine’s wheels move into a diagonal position on the floor. You let out a couple of squeaks and all the noise that you’re making causes an older woman to come scurrying into the room. She’s wearing an apron over her comfortable purple and pink patterned cardigan, black top and smart trousers. Her whitening hair is up neatly away from her face and there is something oddly familiar about her kind, concerned oval shaped face and beady eyes, but you don’t know what. You’ve never seen her before. 

 

She looks at you calculatingly and as soon as she sees that you’re awake and fiddling with the machine she hurries towards you. You stop your fervent actions and stare at her, feeling a little out of breath. “Now,” she says in a firm voice, which immediately makes you pay attention as she looks at you, “There’s no need for all of that. Mycroft had to pay quite a substantial sum to have it on loan from the hospital and I doubt they’ll be pleased if you ruin it. Violet Holmes.” She adds in response to your unasked question. “It’s nice to meet you at last F/N dear.”

 

Things, which had started to slot into place for you at hearing her voice do so even more now. “You’re-You’re Mycroft’s mother?” you ask. 

 

She sniffs a little. “Yes. For all the good it does me sometimes I am.”

 

You smile a little at that and look around. “What happened?” you ask. 

 

She straightens your machine and hums a little as she bustles around to the chair that’s on the other side of the bed so she can sit beside you. “You remember being taken?” Her face, though grim, softens as she looks at you and it’s a moment of reassurance when her hand comes to rest on top of yours. 

 

“Yes. I remember being inside the Victorian house and trying to escape, but I”-you break off now-“Well, obviously I did”-you let out a bit of an awkward laugh-“But I don’t remember _how.”_ Your throat feels dry from lack of use and you feel distressed and uncertain. Violet hands you a glass of water that she’s been keeping by your bedside and changing regularly. You drink a fair amount of it gratefully, before you hand it to her and she puts it back again. 

 

“There was a fire dear.” Violet rubs at your arm. “Mycroft says that you were very brave. You made your way to a window and smashed the glass out of it. You jumped and he caught you.” You don’t recall that at all. “You fell unconscious then and were taken to hospital. You woke once or twice. You don’t remember it?” Again you shake your head. “Well, anyway dear,” she strokes at your hair, “Mycroft decided that you should be brought here to be looked after more comfortably. Your father hasn’t been.” Violet looks annoyed now. “But your brother came when Mycroft first brought you.” You feel surprised about that. You would have thought Robert too busy with work. “Yes, Mycroft had quite the talk with him. I listened just outside the door when neither of them thought that I was paying attention.” You feel suddenly worried, wondering what had been exchanged between the two men and wishing that Mycroft and Robert were two people who could stay separate. Someone you admire should not be around someone whose caused you so much pain. “To be fair to my son, who as I'm sure you know by now dear can be pretty childish, he might not be the most courageous of men on the whole, but he’s tried to do what’s right by you.” You feel suddenly now that you want to hear every single word of this and she looks at you knowingly. “He stayed by your side as much as he could during your first few hours in hospital and then had to go back to work to co-ordinate the response. Then he brought you here himself like I was saying earlier, that’s right.” You get the sense that Violet’s been saving up these little moments to tell you and make you aware of her son’s virtues. You’re about to say something along the lines that you already know of them, but then Violet’s going on again, “Carried you from the ambulance himself to this bedroom. Observed the paramedics, whilst they set up the machine and bossed them around I don’t mind telling you.” She lets out a little laugh now. You smile. You can imagine him doing that. “He’s been coming up as often as he can”-

 

“He’s been coming _here?”_ Violet nods. You know that his parents live far away from London and you feel touched. 

 

“Every weekend, and I hear he’s been trying to borrow a helicopter, so that he can come up during some of the evenings too.” You feel a little amused, humbled and surprised by all this. “He makes me give him updates about your condition every lunchtime and evening. He tried to make me do the same in the mornings too, but I said that at five am you were asleep like the rest of us sane mortals. He’ll be glad to know that you’re awake dear. I heard from Sherlock that he’s been asking that other assistant of his to look up reasons for why you might still be unconscious. She’s been compiling a folder,” Violet remarks dryly now, and once more you feel a little entertained, but curious too. Mycroft must have been driving Anthea and all those around him crazy, but just how long have you been out for? “Edwin! Edwin!” Violet suddenly screeches, causing you to jump. “Sorry dear.” She pats at your hand as she stands, looking back at you already with a trace of fondness about her. 

 

“How long have I-?”

 

“Two weeks dear. You’ve been here two weeks.”

 

“Oh, I'm very sorry”- You feel bad for encroaching upon them. 

 

She swats a hand at you. “Not a word of it.” She looks at the door imploringly. Finally a tall man with even kinder eyes than Violet and wearing both a crooked smile and bow tie comes tottering into the room. “Oh, there you are!” Violet exclaims as if the pair of you have been waiting hours. 

 

“Just trying to take an afternoon nap. I’ve had a cold recently, been off from work,” he murmurs, before his bright eyes go your way. “I'm very glad to see that you’re awake. I'm Mycroft’s father, Edwin.”

 

“It’s very nice to meet you Mr. Holmes. I want to thank you both so much for looking after me.”

 

“Edwin please,” he says, looking uncomfortable at your formality. 

 

Whilst Violet gets in, “I’ve already told you not to thank us dear.” 

 

You’re about to say that you have to when the landline rings. 

 

 _“Oh.”_ Violet looks suddenly flustered. “Get that will you?” she appeals to her husband, whose already begun to turn around. “It must be Mycroft. Tell him that F/N’s awake.” Edwin goes off now, mumbling something about how he’s capable of remembering all that without being instructed. Violet looks suddenly stern at the show of small defiance, before she looks at you distractedly. “I came in this room last Sunday when Mycroft was here and caught him sat by your bedside and holding your hand as he talked to you.”

 

 _“Oh!”_ Such a thing makes you blush and you wish that you could remember it or you’d had some sense of it at the time. 

 

“He let go of it of course when he saw me.” Violet pats at your hand. “Love can be so strange. I don’t know why, after everything, he wouldn't have just kept holding onto you, but I think he was a little afraid, so you’ll have to be gentle with him. As soon as he saw me he looked solemnly at you and said, _‘I don’t know what I’ll do when she wakes.’”_ You feel a little afraid for a moment. Does that mean that Mycroft’s thinking of sacking you? “It’s because he loves you dear and you love him. He’s just not sure what to do with it.” She stares at the door now. “Not a word dear.” She looks back at you. “I know by how eager you were to hear of him that you feel the same.” 

 

Truly you don’t know what to say. Part of you feels embarrassed, the other defiant. After what you’ve been through it feels good to know that you might still be able to love, that there might still be that chance there. That everything you’ve been through hasn’t squeezed it out of you. 

 

*

 

“…You’re welcome to have a word with her yourself Mycroft. She’s awake now. I'm sure she’d like to hear from you,” Edwin says in reference to you, his brow a little creased as he talks to his son via the phone. 

 

There’s nothing that Mycroft would rather. It’s what he’s been waiting for, for days and then weeks once it had turned into being that way. Hanging around for in between thinking about the words that Robert had spoken. The thought of speaking with you when he has almost become accustomed to not doing so in a form other than inside his head and having to confront the future is still a little scary to him though, especially when its come so suddenly on a day where he’d simply resigned himself to another set of phone calls where Violet told him that you’re unconscious and that there’s been no change in you. He’d rather speak to you face to face if he has to now deal with everything. “No, no,” he hums, “I’ll come up later instead.” He steels himself, feeling better to have just made that announcement. If his father knows and tells everyone then there’ll be no backing out of it. He has essentially cornered himself now. 

 

“But it’s a Tuesday.” Edwin’s a little perplexed. 

 

Mycroft feels suddenly annoyed now. He’s caught between a father who’s about as useless at picking up on these things as he is and a mother who’s always too knowing. “Yes, I know Father, but I'm sure that the office can manage without me for a few hours. I can work late for the rest of the week to make up for it.” He feels a little troubled at the thought of not seeing you for so long after tonight. Perhaps he can set up some sort of office at his parents’ home? He truly considers the idea for a moment, Anthea would probably consider it a nice little holiday after all, but then he sighs. Mummy would never allow for such an intrusion. 

 

*

 

Once you’ve been detached from the machine you find yourself washing, getting dressed in clothes that thankfully Anthea had brought out for you and staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, looking at the face that all these things have happened to and wondering what might yet still happen. Your hair is shorter now, but not as choppy as you’d imagined it would look when you’d been in the cell. Violet must have tidied it up. It should probably make you look younger, but you feel less youthful instead. Older. _Changed._

 

*

 

You’re in an armchair in the living room with a blanket wrapped around your clothes and eating a warm bowl of chicken soup, which you cradle to your knees, when Mycroft finally arrives alongside the private doctor and your brother that evening. Apparently Mycroft’s been paying for the doctor to come to the cottage every day in order to check on you, mostly just so that he could tell Mycroft’s parents to keep doing what they’re doing, which is another thing that you feel bad about. The time and expense that he’s gone to for you! That they've all gone to. You’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to repay any of them. 

 

The three of them troop in, Mycroft’s head stretching over the other men to seek you out. You want to look at him, but feeling like maybe you shouldn't or that you’ll have time to do so later, you look at your brother instead. To your surprise relief is etched all over his face as he stares at you. 

 

 _“F/N.”_ He gives you a very awkward, but warm hug. 

 

“Oh, Rob, hey.” You look at Mycroft over your brother’s shoulder. It still seems strange to you that he should be real and not inside your head. It’s odd looking at him after what you’d realized too. Now you know such a thing you can’t seem to look away. His face looks warmer than you remember it and you wonder if he might be getting a cold. He barely seems able to look at you and when Robert lets go of you and draws back he seems all odd and unsure of how to greet you. You want him to hug you just like your brother had done-you think that would be very nice-but in the end he just gives your shoulder a quick squeeze. 

 

“It-It’s very good to have you back in the land of the living with us F/N.” He rocks back and forth on his heels. 

 

“Oh yes. I'm happy to be back.” You look at him strangely when he flinches, not knowing how what you’ve just said has reminded him of how vision you had said you want to live. “Are you getting a cold?”

 

“No.” Mycroft curses himself inwardly for saying such a ridiculous thing and then for causing you to worry about him. Violet lets out a bit of a despairing chuckle, which makes Mycroft flush. Edwin, having cottoned on more to the truth of his son’s feelings now, appears sorry for him. Robert observes Mycroft guardedly. If the man’s going to be with you then he’d rather that he just got on with it. None of this messing about or delicacy stuff. 

 

“F/N, it’s good to see you. I'm Doctor Michaels and I’ve been overseeing your private care.” You turn your attention to the middle-aged, brown-haired doctor whose got a friendly smile. He sits down opposite you and whilst you discuss how you’re feeling with him Mycroft and Robert hover awkwardly on the periphery.

 

Once the good doctor departs, satisfied for now and saying that you’ll still be able to call on him, as will any of the family if they’re concerned about you, but that he’ll send your notes down to your regular doctor in London, Robert takes up the seat opposite. You allow yourself to look for Mycroft, but he must have gone to see the doctor out because he’s not there any more. Violet and Edwin also depart. Feeling disappointed your gaze returns to your brother. 

 

In the kitchen where Mycroft leans thoughtfully against one of the cupboards after getting some final reassurance from Dr. Michaels that you will, after everything, be all right, Violet touches at his arm and murmurs, “When you talk to her you must tell her everything.” Mycroft looks at her, knowing what she is referring to, but not liking it. He knows that he must act, but is it really necessary for it to be so soon?

 

“I'm not sure if”- Mycroft is already looking for a reason to back out. 

 

Violet gives him a look as if she is willing him to find his courage. “You have managed pretty well on the whole so far.” Mycroft stares at her, unused to, but eager to hear any compliments that she might have to offer him. “You were the one weren’t you who took charge at the hospital? Who decided that it might be best if she was brought here? Perhaps you aren't so hopeless as to not be able to go through with this one last thing now?”

 

Mycroft swallows and nods. The matter appears to be decided. 

 

Back in the living room things are awkward for a long moment. Even though its been weeks since you’ve worked you can feel the different powers of your brother’s role and your own fluxing between you. Your soup is finished now so you can’t even eat that. Then Robert says, “Father sends his best regards.” You look at him sceptically. “All right he doesn’t.” He looks off to the side, seemingly a mix of frustration and despair. “Just because you don’t get on doesn’t mean that we can’t does it?” He looks back at you. You feel surprised. You hadn’t ever thought that Robert cared for you enough not to throw you under a bus if it came to it, but now there is a desperation about his face, as if he’s been dwelling on this for a while and more than just a couple of weeks. “Here. I got you this.” He brings out a thin, long package from the inside of his jacket. “Late Christmas present,” he says, nodding at the festive paper. “I know it’s not wrapped in a bow like Mum used to say, but”- He shrugs.

 

“It’s still nice,” you assure him, before you take it from him gingerly and unwrap it. It’s a set of very expensive looking blue fountain pens. 

 

“Thought you could get some use of them at work.”

 

“Thank you.” You stare at the pens in surprise, wondering if they’re real too, before you look back at him again. 

 

Uncomfortable he stands. “I better be off soon. Work waits for no man and all that.” He laughs in an exaggerated fashion now that makes you cringe. “But I thought,” he goes on in a lower tone, “That maybe once you’re back on your feet again and have returned to London that we could go for a meal together or something? The city’s not so big really. Doesn't make sense if we’re both in it not to be meeting up every now and again.”

 

Startled once more you consider his offer. “Yeah, all right,” you say eventually, “I think I’d like that.” 

 

Robert practically beams in relief. “Good.” He departs. Feeling befuddled by what’s just happened you put the fountain pens and the wrapping they’d came in onto the side table. 

 

Mycroft walks swiftly into the room a moment later. “Had a nice conversation with your brother?” is what he asks as soon as his eyes fall on you. He deposits the bottle of sherry and glasses that he’s carrying and pours one for you. 

 

“Mm.” You take the offering gratefully. Something prickles at you. “Were you responsible for that in any way?”

 

He looks suddenly mischievous. “I might have been.” He settles down opposite you. 

 

“Those fountain pens he gave me look suspiciously like the ones you use at work too.” You think now. You don’t want what’s happened to change Mycroft’s opinion of you. For him to think that you’re less efficient and that you need more looking after or something. 

 

“I do hope that you don’t think I was overstepping?” Mycroft sips at his sherry now, before he replaces it on the side-table. “I was mainly trying to ensure that you have some familial support from somewhere. I don’t like saying this, but it occurs to me after meeting your father that it’s probably not coming from that direction.”

 

 _“No…_ you’ve met my father?” Both guarded and thoughtful now you have a taste of your own drink. 

 

“Yes. When you were first-well, when everything began to happen,” Mycroft starts awkwardly now, “Your brother and father had to be informed of the circumstances of course and they came to the office. I noted that Robert was a little more pliable, _but…”_ as he trails off awkwardly Mycroft tilts his head. 

 

“He told you didn't he?” you guess, feeling an uncomfortable sensation low in your tummy. This is even worse than you’d imagined. If Mycroft knows that then there will definitely be a change in your relationship. If he’d found out such a thing on an ordinary day at the office then you would have probably tried to avoid him as much as possible thereafter, and once you’d finally spoken with him pleaded your case for why you should have remained in the job. However, unfortunately, or perhaps not so if it makes him understand this whole thing quicker, he’s there in front of you now. Besides, if Violet’s been honest with you then he’s been there for you in the past couple of weeks just as much as he has been previously by giving you the chance of your job in the first place. You owe him one conversation at least. You just hope that it won’t end with him making the polite suggestion that you should resign or leave things being awkward between you forever. 

 

“Yes. Some things were discussed.” Mycroft looks at you intently. You nod. You can tell that he’s wondering how such a thing could have ever come to pass for you. 

 

You put down your glass and shift your position. “My mother got ill when I was sixteen.” You swallow. “Well, towards the end of when I was fifteen really.” You bow your head a little and rake a hand through your hair. You’ve never really had to explain this before. “She-She died when I was sixteen.” You look up at him. His face alone conveys just how very sorry he is. Trying to make things better you say in a jovial voice, “That’s why I’ve always liked talking to your mother. It was nice. Since I couldn't speak with my own.” Mycroft reaches across and grasps at your hand. He holds it gently, swiping his thumb across your hand. 

 

“You’re welcome to share her. My whole family. They’d like that. _I’d_ like that,” he tells you now earnestly. 

 

“Thank you.” You can’t express just how much that means to you. “As-As you’ve probably guessed”-you clear your throat-“My father and I have a difficult kind of relationship.” That’s putting it mildly. “When his party fell out of power and he lost his job as Chancellor he took it upon himself to groom Robert. I'm not saying that he was sexist, that he didn't want greatness for me, though I’ve thought about this a lot and I think that both of those things are partly true. I just didn't show as much outward ability. I wanted fairness, to be given an equal chance in his mind.” Your lips rub together now and you look down. The sight of Mycroft’s hand upon yours soothes you. “But Robert became the little star of the family. Mother indulged me, out of guilt as much as love. She was my cheerleader if you like”-

 

“I’ll be your cheerleader now, though I can’t say that I’ll look any good with pom-poms,” Mycroft says with a joking sincerity and you smile, before your face becomes more serious again. You don’t quite know what’s happening between you, but you like it. It feels right after how much you’d relied on him when you’d been trapped in the cell. 

 

“When she died, my father, who had always found me very difficult I think because I did not follow how he wanted me to be started to openly imply that it would be best if I moved out. Naturally I probably would have in a couple of years anyway, but he wanted me to do so sooner. I didn't really want to do anything to please him, not any more, not after having failed his unrealistic and unfair expectations for all these years, so I fought against it for a while, but slowly I became all the more miserable and saw that I was only torturing myself by staying there. Robert had already left. It was just Father and I. I felt like a disappointment.” Mycroft frowns. “I became more inward looking than ever,” you choke out now as memories of that torrid time come back to you, of being alone in your room, of crying every single day, of wanting to escape and hurt and injure yourself. Mycroft moves to crouch beside you, putting one arm, strong and steady, around your back. You laugh a little through your tears, feeling embarrassed. “It was a long time ago.” You try and shrug it off. “I wasn’t in a good place. I didn't _get_ to a good place”-

 

“But then you had the courage to leave”-

 

“Yes, at seventeen, though I'm not sure that it was”-

 

“And you became the best assistant I’ve ever had.” You feel like Mycroft is both trying to be sincere with you and exaggerating your role in an attempt to make up for the awful time that you’d endured with your father. You both like it and you don’t. 

 

“Don’t tell Anthea that.” You wipe away a tear. 

 

He smiles, squeezing at your hand some more and truly understanding now why your job means so much to you. “I wish I could have stopped you from going through what you’ve been through,” he says in a low, wistful tone now, before he strikes upon something in his mind that makes him startle. _“I”-_ he seems to be steeling himself for something-“I’ll understand if you’ve been put off your job. If it doesn’t mean as much to you any more and if you would like to”-

 

“I still want to work if you’ll have me.” Your spirit is not going to be crushed by this. You’ve been through too much to give up now. 

 

“Of course,” he says at once, the tension in his stomach lessening at having overcome that first hurdle. 

 

The pair of you are relieved at that, but then an odd feeling grows up between you. It is not entirely unlike the others that you have both experienced in the past, where after a foreign policy reading in his office together or at the end of a conversation something more has bordered between you, but it is different all the same now. There is less superficial shine and a deeper understanding there between you. 

 

 _“I”-_ you both begin at the same time. 

 

“You first,” he says now in a gentlemanly fashion. 

 

“Well-I”-you look at him both a little shyly and hesitantly-“I just wanted to say that though you might not have been able to stop me from going through what I have, you _did_ help me.” Mycroft looks confused now. “I sort of used what I thought you might do to help get out of there. It was your voice I heard urging me to keep going through the fire and before that telling me to get up in the first place. I don’t think I could have been that strong if I hadn’t worked for you. It was like you were protecting me.” You don’t say you love him. You can’t be that brave yet, but Mycroft feels a stirring of hope in his heart all the same. 

 

“Oh, I think you could have been that sturdy,” Mycroft says modestly, remembering the way he’d seen you look in the window and thinking on what you have just told him about how you’d gotten out of your family home for the better. “I think there is both a strength and an innocence about you.” He feels warm. You do too as you look at him, before you look down again. _“F/N?”_ Mycroft clears his throat a little. You look up at him. Your eyes shine against each other’s. “I'm glad I was able to help.” Mycroft looks off to the side a little awkwardly. “F/N, I'm not sure if you remember, but, well, after you jumped from the window, well we-for a moment we kissed. It was probably the relief. Probably a mix of things, but you see I wanted to apologize for it. It was terrible timing.”

 

You stare at him in open shock. Does that mean that he regrets it? That he doesn’t feel the same? You wish you could remember it though. To have kissed him and for that to have been wiped from your mind…“Yeah it probably wasn’t the best.” That’s all you can manage. Good God you’re ridiculous. 

 

“You stank of smoke. I sort of coughed.” Maybe Mycroft is too. 

 

“Yeah.” You really don’t know what to do about this. “Um, do you know anything about the man who took me? I’d like to know a bit more about him.”

 

“Oh of course.” Mycroft startles. “No one’s told you have they?” You shake your head. He tells you a bit about your captor and the reason he’d taken you. You feel very sorry by the time that he says, “He’s dead. They found him in the fire. The getaway driver has gone underground and probably won’t be found now…” It sounds like Shahnawaz had gotten in way over his head. Feeling choked you’re quiet for a long while. Mycroft squeezes at you harder.

 

You get another moment of courage. _“Max?”_ Your voice trembles ever so slightly now. 

 

You can tell by Mycroft’s face what the answer is. “Gone. I'm sorry F/N.” He bows his head now. Tears prick at your eyes, but you nod and try and get yourself under control. “He told me to tell you that he was sorry.” Mycroft smiles bravely at you. You let out a dry sob. 

 

“I thought he was dead, but”-you sniff for a moment-“I can’t remember the kiss.” You decide to focus on the future suddenly. Max had always encouraged you to live after all. The thought of it is like a bittersweet memory inside of you. 

 

Mycroft looks surprised. “No, well, like I said it’s probably for the best. It wouldn't have been much of a memory.”

 

Your faces are close now. Soft, apprehensive breaths blowing on the other. 

 

“We could always try and do it right this time.” Mycroft looks terrified, but if your time in the cell has taught you anything it’s not to delay and to recognize what you’re feeling a lot earlier. To stop pushing things that are important aside just because you’re scared of them. You’re still frightened though. “Unless you still believe that people can’t have a relationship with a person they’re being protected by?” You give Mycroft a chance to back out. Mycroft’s face softens though and you make a small sound in your throat in relief. For the first time you know that he feels the same. “I'm going to kiss you now.” Before he gets the chance to do anything more than look alarmed you press your lips gently to his. They soften like candy canes as he responds, your touch inciting him to do so. You let out a moan, grasping at his cheek. Outside the living room window the snow softly falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote an alternative chapter two. If anyone would like to see it then please leave a comment and I will put it up soon. :)
> 
> Thanks for your support. :)


	3. Alternative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an alternative ending to chapter one and then a complete alternative chapter two. I hope you enjoy it. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support. It means the world to me. 
> 
> Have a very merry Christmas. X.

Mycroft, in a car that’s coming up the street from the other end, which had been able to get there so fast at his encouragement of the driver-Alan Hargreaves, a broad shouldered, but trim man in his forties with wisps of silvery hair-jumps at the sound of the gunshot. He’d been trying to look around the front seat and see you. His throat had been in his heart as he’d caught a glimpse of the door of the SUV opening. Now, as his own driver slams on his brakes Mycroft hits the back of the car seat hard, not wearing a seatbelt himself. Heart racing and mind numb he shifts his position and through some parked cars sees you on the ground, body half-covered by Max’s. There’s blood, but Mycroft cannot tell from this distance who it belongs to. He opens the car door with a trembling hand against Alan’s instruction and lifts himself, so that he is still half in the car, but able to see better. When he sees that two men of Afghani descent-one of them presumably being Shahnawaz-are now dragging the both of you back to the SUV, having evidently taken the key from Max’s pocket. Mycroft gets out of the car properly. Alan shouts at him to get back inside and he knows that his own security detail must all be having mini seizures right now, but he takes a cautious step towards you in any case. You’re bundled into the back seat as your eyes flash hazily towards Mycroft and Max is thrown in there too. 

 

 _“F/N!”_ Mycroft tries again. 

 

There’s the sound of an engine revving, a screech of tyres and suddenly the SUV is plowing towards him and Mycroft is forced to slam the back car door shut and to have his back right up against it. As the SUV charges past him he can see the whites of your eyes as you look at him in fear from where you’re half-crouched over Max breathlessly in the back. 

 

Heart thumping Mycroft throws himself back into the car. “Turn around now and get after that vehicle!” He slams his hands against the back of the front car seat. Alan hesitates. _“Now!”_

 

The driver does the quickest and screechiest three-point turn that Mycroft’s ever heard and then finally they’re going after the SUV. “Your detail’s going to have me for this sir,” Alan says a little nervously, his dark eyes anxious, but resolute too in the mirror. 

 

“You work for me, so let me fret about them later,” Mycroft murmurs, ironically just as a call from Luke comes through on his phone. The head of his security detail no doubt wants an explanation for what he’s been hearing from all the other guards. Mycroft ignores it however and gets on the phone to Anthea instead. He tells her what’s happened and what street they’re on, so that she’s able to track them down in the CCTV control room. Whenever traffic gets in the way or for whatever reason Mycroft loses track of the SUV for a moment she puts him back on the right track and goes on to send both the police and an ambulance in that direction. 

 

“I don’t like this very much sir,” Alan confesses when they finally get close up behind the SUV as it turns off and heads down towards a quieter suburb. 

 

“It will be all right,” Mycroft says in a half soothing fashion, though with the thrumming of his heart that’s debatable. He’s got one eye on the back of the SUV and can just make out the top of your head, whilst his ear is glued to his phone. 

 

Alan looks unconvinced. They hear a siren wailing in the distance behind them and the SUV swerves out into the middle of the road in front of them. 

 

“Hang back a fraction,” Mycroft advises because the last thing that he wants them to do now is to go smashing into the back of the SUV and inadvertently end up killing both Max and you. He hangs on in the next moment as Alan takes a corner sharply after where the SUV is now swinging into an otherwise empty car park of a small, dilapidated supermarket. The SUV nearly crashes into a lonely trolley that’s drifting across in the breeze and Alan utilizes the brakes, so that they can avoid doing the same. They come to a stop altogether now as they try and get their bearings of what the SUV is about to do next and Mycroft watches in slow motion as it continues its path recklessly across, before it slides on some black ice and swings about violently from side to side. It settles down again and comes to an abrupt halt. The two Afghani’s jump out at once, leaving the front doors open and talking to each other quickly in Pashto, before they try to run out of there. _“Anthea,”_ Mycroft murmurs, telling her in one word to get the police after them. 

 

“On it sir. The ambulance is coming your way.”

 

Mycroft disconnects the call and pushes the mobile absent-mindedly back down into the seat. He pushes the door of the car open, but his mouth goes slack with shock when the back door of the SUV gets flung open and Max, the blood coming through his shirt, dark red and slick, tumbles out of there and moves doggedly forwards a few steps, as if he thinks even now that he might be quick enough to catch the escapees on foot. Mycroft makes to get out of the car and at the very moment he stands, Max falls. His body hits the ground with a thud and Mycroft hears you screaming Max’s name. As you launch yourself out of the SUV, looking blood spattered, grim and pale, he too begins to run towards Max, slipping clumsily a little on the ice. The pair of you arrive there at the same time, your body shaking and Mycroft’s eyes turning a pale and watery blue as he looks down at Max who is now convulsing slightly on the ground as he struggles to breathe. No matter his feelings towards the man Mycroft would never have wanted him to die like this. You drop beside your guard and try and undo the top few buttons of his shirt, hoping that it might help him. 

 

Max turns his head towards you and gurgles in response to what you’re doing, before his eyes fix completely on Mycroft. “I guess this makes up for what happened with Sherlock before?” The words are a strain for him to get out, but there’s a ghost of a grin upon his face. That same brazen, boyish smile, which had succeeded in annoying Mycroft and you so many times. 

 

Mycroft tries to reply, he really does, but before he can get out anything more than a rasping breath, Max is gone. His eyes shut for the last time. 

 

“Max…Max…” you moan, crying softly. Mycroft assists you to your feet, his hands supporting you. “He gave his life for me,” you say faintly. 

 

“I know.” Mycroft begins to steer you away from there and towards the car. He looks hopefully towards the entrance of the car park. The ambulance seems to be taking a while to appear, though he thinks that he can faintly hear the sound of it in the distance. 

 

“Even after everything, all the times that I snapped at him or didn't understand, after everything that had happened with you, _he”-_

 

“It was his job,” Mycroft murmurs, a little more firmly now. 

 

“He thought that my life was worthwhile. That _both_ of ours were.” Your words are tremulous, but so quiet that Mycroft can only just hear them over the breeze and the siren of the clunky ambulance, which now pulls into the car park. 

 

He sits you down sideways in the back of the black car. Your feet point down more than touch the ground. You are bloody and shaken and Alan looks back at you in horror, though thankfully Mycroft can see, as his eyes roam over you, that it appears to only be Max’s blood and not any of yours that’s on you. A tight feeling grips him at the thought that it could be your body lying where Max’s is now. He reaches past you and hands you his phone. “Hold onto that as tight as you want. Tell me if it rings. I’ll just-look after her,” he amends to Alan, gesturing feebly towards the ambulance, before he begins to go off again. 

 

He spends a little while just talking to one of the paramedics, before the others go off to sort you out and see what they can do to be respectful to Max. The next time he looks over to the car it is to see that you’re not there. His heart lurches for a moment, before he sees that you’re leaning against the side of the SUV, looking lost, your eyes staring out at the blue blanket that now covers most of Max’s body. The police and forensics will need to come and examine the scene, before the body can get taken away. Just as Big Ben chimes the New Year he makes his way over to you. 

 

You glance at him, before you sniffle and quickly look away again. “They kept trying to put a blanket over me too.” You gesture hopelessly at Max’s. 

 

“You’re in shock,” Mycroft comments matter-of-factly, taking his post next to you and looking out himself. 

 

“Max isn’t in shock.”

 

 _“No,”_ Mycroft says more softly, ducking his head. 

 

“He repaid his debt?” You glance at him, looking desperate now. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft admits heavily. As you nod and look back to Max again, trying to hold back any more choked sobs, his hand finds yours and gives it a light squeeze, the cool metal of his ring chinking against you, as his fingers rub to warm up your cold skin. You twist your hand and cling onto him tightly. 

 

The two of you just stand there and stare out, getting lost amongst the drifting snow. For now there’s nothing more to say. 

 

**December 2003**

 

A lot has happened. In January of that year Mycroft and you had attended Max’s funeral together. Anthea, to no one’s surprise, had decided to skip that one. 

 

After the service you’d stood by the graveside alone for a moment and Mycroft had joined you, his shoes squelching a little against the soft mud of the wintry day. You’d gulped in a breath of air. 

 

Once more you’d both stood there with nothing much to say. 

 

*

 

You’d carried on after that, but it had caught you sometimes. The memories of your abduction and the way Max had died had reached out from the dark, their fingernails long and foreboding as they’d clutched at you. If it happened then it would usually do so once you were in bed and as you tried to fall asleep, which wasn’t the nicest thing, but all right, as no one could see you there. But sometimes it happened during the end of a long day at work when few other people remained and you only had the sound of technology as it hummed to distract you from your thoughts. 

 

It happened when you’d been tired and just staring at the screen in a nonplussed fashion about a week or so after the funeral. The darkness had sunk down all around you and every time you’d blinked you’d seen something, which had pertained to that night. The quick vision of the street ahead as you’d fallen to your knees; the blood, Max’s pale face and you’d begun to feel that terror too. Whispers of all the negative things your father had said over the years had started to pour through your ears, but this time they had a new complaint added to that long list and told you that Max’s death was your fault. If you’d just killed yourself then he would never have had to protect and then die for you. You’d found yourself getting up from your desk with legs that had shaken. You’d thought that you’d just go to the bathroom. Splash some water over your face. Try and get yourself out of whatever you had got yourself into in the first place. You’d whimpered a little. Your body hadn’t complied fast enough as you’d made your way over to the double doors. You’d pushed them open sloppily, but as you’d stumbled through them and the light had detected your presence, before it had flickered on automatically, you’d heard the gunshot in your ear and felt that rush of mixed fear and nausea. You’d crumpled to the floor, pushed yourself up against the wall and trembled a little. Tears had run down your face as you’d seen Max’s body in your mind and how he’d looked the moment, before he’d died. You’d felt like you couldn't breathe. 

 

Thankfully there was someone who was always working as late as you, if not later, and he’d chosen that moment to go to the toilet himself. As Mycroft had seen you a surprised exclamation had left his lips, before he’d understood what was going on immediately. He’d crouched beside you. Slowly you’d turned your eyes towards him. They’d been dark and terrified like tunnels that no headlight could ever breach. “F/N I want you to focus on me all right? No matter what’s going on in your head right now you have to know that it’s not real, not any more, but I am. Look at me. Focus on me.” You’d stared at him. “I'm going to ask you a few things. Firstly, do you know where you are?”

 

“I-I'm at work in London.” You’d swallowed again and again and tried to make yourself more aware of the fact. Mycroft was right. You weren’t in that car park, not any more. You were at your place of work in London and Mycroft was in front of you. “I work for you,” had been what you’d told him a little stupidly. 

 

“Good, good. That’s right. Just focus on that fact and on me. It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine. I promise you.” Your breathing had slowed despite the fact that you’d known he couldn't be sure of such a thing. “I'm going to take your hand now. Is that all right?” You’d nodded. Gingerly he’d taken your hand and looked into your eyes searchingly. He’d sat beside you for a moment, leant against the wall and just stroked at your hand. He’d told you that you probably didn't even realize it, but you’d really been there for him that day, so you didn't have to trouble yourself about letting him be there for you now. You’d nodded again. He’d reminded you of how you’d brought him coffee just when he’d really needed it that day despite the fact that he hadn’t even asked you to and how you’d rescued him from that boring phone call with the Ambassador of Paraguay. That had distracted your mind and made you giggle a little. Mycroft had liked the sound of it. “We should probably get up. Can you stand? I’d like it if you came back to my office. We could discuss foreign policy. There’s rather something that I’ve been meaning to run by you.” You’d known that he’d probably just been about to invent something on the spot and that really he’d just wanted to keep an eye on you, but you’d accepted the excuse gratefully. You’d wanted to be near him. He’d been the only one who you’d thought might understand. The only one who’d been through everything with Max and who’d been there that final night. He’d helped you to your feet and you’d followed him. He’d said something about how they needed to get more sufficient lights in the office to distract you and you’d felt not exactly safe again, but like things might be getting more to that point, which had comforted you. 

 

For the first half of spring and as winter had thawed, giving way to a time of new hope, Mycroft and you had mostly been focused on work, though you’d often seek each other out. Mycroft in order to make sure that you were all right and you because you found that hanging onto these often quiet moments of solace, which you spent together in his office, provided a soothing remedy for the nightmares that you’d now started to experience. Slowly Mycroft had suggested that the pair of you revert to discussing foreign policy and any matters at work that took your interest as you’d done so before. Despite the beginnings of the Iraq war outside your discussions had started to grow more playful than they had before and as you’d started to laugh again you’d begun to heal and even to want. The latter half of spring had become more vibrant for Mycroft and you. A brush of the fingertips here and there, a lingering gaze, a fascination with one another’s bodies that was held in the eyes of the other…all of these things preceded the heady July night that Mycroft had finally asked if you might like to accompany him to dinner and talk about all your usual things in a much nicer setting. You’d wondered at first if you might be meeting someone else there and if it was really a work trip, but when Mycroft had assured you that it wasn’t and that it would actually be just the pair of you, you’d felt pleased. You’d become a little apprehensive though when you’d started talking more about each other’s personal lives and interests. He’d escorted you home and started to walk from your door and back down the hallway of your apartment building, swinging his umbrella a little as he went with a hum. Still buzzing from the night you’d shut the door and just made to drift vaguely towards the kitchenette when you’d been caught by surprise. A knock had come on the door. You’d opened it and both delight and nerves had thrummed through you when you’d seen that it was Mycroft. 

 

Looking slightly harried he’d uttered, “Forgive me I forgot to do something.” Your heart had taken off inside your chest when he’d grabbed onto your shoulders and with a firm kind of gentleness steered you, so that he was able to softly kiss you on the edge of your mouth. With widening e/c eyes you’d turned your head towards him as he’d pulled away. “A gentleman should always kiss a lady at the end of a night out, especially at the conclusion of such a fine evening, wouldn't you agree?” By his tone you might have thought that he was teaching you back at work again, but his twinkling eyes alone had told you that work _wasn’t_ on his mind right then. 

 

“Who says this is the conclusion?” Consumed by the desire that had been building up for months you’d grown suddenly bold and touched at his arm tenderly, helping his hand find your waist as you’d teetered on your tiptoes to kiss him properly. His eyes had flared wide with a noted surprise, before they’d shut again and as he’d made a few soft sounds against you, the length of his umbrella firm against your back, you’d realized that ever since what had happened with Max this was the first time that you’d felt truly alive. Alive with your hands splayed and searching against the fine material of Mycroft’s suit, being cautious just in case he minded, but he hadn’t seemed to and his lips had meshed against yours. 

 

When you’d woken the following morning it had been to clothes that were littered against the floor, as if two people had been melted from them, along with Mycroft’s umbrella and to Mycroft sprawled messily against your side-the first time you hadn’t seen him be neat!-still sleeping, mouth agape, but he’d still cut a very beautiful figure as one of his legs had been hooked over yours. You’d felt ridiculously happy and safe and you hadn’t been able to resist leaning forwards and pecking him on the lips. His blue eyes had flicked open instantly and his lips had curled upward. He’d seemed to be just as happy as you upon realizing that the previous night had happened after all. 

 

There were things to be discussed of course. Though when the door to Mycroft’s office was shut you might allow yourselves a word or two that pertained to your relationship, a chaste kiss or a tidying up of clothing and your late night discussions of foreign policy became less about that and more about the exploration of foreign _bodies,_ at work on the whole you kept your new found relationship very quiet. That wasn’t to say that people didn't know about it however. Anthea twigged from that very first morning where you showed up merely moments apart, you with a large grin playing about your face even though you were trying to suppress it and Mycroft with a bounce to his step that he couldn't withhold. You’d shared a secret smile with one another as Mycroft had gone past. But what with both of your security details-Mycroft had insisted that you kept yours despite the fact that Shahnawaz and his accomplice had been found and arrested shortly after Max’s death on their way to Dover-it would have been impossible to keep the thing a long-term secret. 

 

In September you’d moved in with Mycroft and vowed to keep his apartment clean-he’d been horrified that first morning when he’d seen the state of your apartment and even wondered if someone had managed to get past security and stealthily rob the place, whilst you’d slept, before you’d assured him that no, that’s just how it was.

 

In November you’d thought that there had been something wrong, but no, actually he’d just wanted to know if you wanted to spend Christmas with his family that year and said that if you did then it would be easier if you were to meet his mother in particular before hand, so that she could get some of her excitement out of her system-she’d almost deafened Mycroft and you one night when she’d rung him and you’d both confessed that no, you weren’t at work, but you were together still because you were a couple. 

 

You’d gratefully accepted Mycroft’s Christmas invitation and now, on the third of December, you feel nervous as Mycroft steers you into the same restaurant that you’d first started to get even closer in order to meet his parents who are already there and waiting for you both at a table. You might have been in regular contact with Violet on the phone for months now, but meeting her in person and as her son’s girlfriend is a completely different concept. You’re also worried as to how Edwin, Mycroft’s father, who you know a bit about, but have never actually spoken to, will take to you. 

 

They rise, tall, thin and upright. They look stern. You begin to feel a weight in your head, the pressure of not being able to live up to being a suitable partner for their son, of not being good enough, suppressing you. Your legs feel increasingly shaky despite Mycroft’s hand of support upon your back. You begin to head towards them. That is until Mycroft grabs at your arm. 

 

“Where are you going?” he hisses. You look back at him now. He’s staring at you with a furrowed brow. You glance back at the man and woman. With shock you see that the people who had been behind you coming into the restaurant are now making their way over to them. “Those aren't my parents.”

 

_“Oh.”_

 

Mycroft’s face softens. “Over there look.” He points to one of the corner tables, which a friendly looking man and woman now get up from. Both with a shock of whitening hair the man is in a smart brown jacket, blue and white checked shirt, a navy bow tie and brown trousers, which look comfortable, but not tailored. The woman is wearing a beautiful black and pink floral dress. She is short, he is tall. They hold no airs or graces about them and they look perfectly normal. Both of their faces crinkle into a smile as soon as they see you. You feel suddenly overwhelmed, even more so when you reach them and Violet takes you into her warm embrace. “Is everything all right?” Mycroft looks at you, noting the tears on your face with bafflement, as you pull back. 

 

“Oh God yes. I'm sorry. I must look so strange. Don’t know what came over me,” you say, trying to tidy yourself up once more. 

 

Violet, who seems to be accepting your words, gives you another hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet the person that I’ve been speaking to on the phone for all this time, especially in the happy circumstances of the pair of you now being together.” She sends a fond look between Mycroft and you, as if her son has spectacularly made up for his lack of romantic partner for all these years. 

 

There’s much blushing on your part and much throat clearing from Mycroft’s. He steers you towards the chair that’s opposite his mother’s, as his parents settle down again, and pulls the seat out for you. As soon as you’re down and comfortable, your handbag off to one side, he hurries to sit beside you and touches at where your hand is on the table. 

 

“Are you sure that you’re all right?” He peers at you anxiously now. He’s never seen you breakdown in such a way before, so suddenly. Even when your life had been under threat you hadn’t cried in front of anyone and when Max had died of course he’d expected you to be upset-it was hardly a pleasant thing to have a man who’d been charged with protecting you die right in front of you no matter what you’d thought about said man-so that hadn’t seemed strange at all. 

 

“I'm fine.” You’re embarrassed. You turn back to his parents. “It’s truly an honour to be meeting you Mr and Mrs. Holmes.”

 

“Please call us Violet and Edwin dear,” Violet speaks for the both of them now, “And we feel the exact same about you. We can’t thank you enough for what you’ve given our son both through your help with his work and otherwise.”

 

Again you blush. It sounds like you’re doing them a favour by having sex with Mycroft. “It’s no problem.”

 

You’re constantly amazed by how nice and welcoming they are towards you as the evening wears on. Violet keeps everyone talking and makes jokes, whilst Edwin is a kind and good-natured man who accepts being the subject of his wife’s teasing with good grace. Whilst Mycroft seems particularly keen to look after you through topping up your drink and making sure that you have everything that you need. You feel well and truly spoilt by them all and as the time continues to go by quickly you feel like the sun’s rays are bursting and stretching out from your very heart. It is a shame to have to part from one another. 

 

“We’ll have to do this again very soon,” Violet says, giving you a look that’s both firm and considering as you all stand on the damp pavement that’s outside the restaurant. 

 

You make a sound of agreement and accept another hug from her. Then Violet and Edwin are getting into a cab and Mycroft and you are moving into one of your own. Mycroft instructs the driver where to go and you let out a contented sigh, resting your head down against his shoulder. He puts an arm around you. 

 

“See?” he soothes. “I told you there would be nothing to worry about.” He still feels puzzled about your earlier behaviour, but is trying to put it down to the natural nerves that he knows you’d felt before instead of getting all worked up about it. Trying to be sensible, _calm._

 

“Mm.” You slip your eyes shut and nestle against him all the more. 

 

*

 

You wake that night from a dream, which you can’t even remember, with an aching need to be close to Mycroft. You’ve never felt anything like it before. It’s so strong that you feel like you’ll surely drown if you don’t get to be close to him now. You twist around, away from the strangulation of sheets, and have a moment of panic when you don’t think that he’s there, before your eyes adjust and you see that he is. He’s on his side, back turned to you. You shuffle towards him. Whimpering a little without being able to help it you snake an arm around his waist and push your head into the back of the t-shirt that he’s wearing, closing your eyes and breathing in his scent, whilst you hold onto him tightly. His eyes slowly open and he makes a little questioning sound. As he realizes just how close to him you are his hand finds where yours is now splayed across his stomach and gives it a gentle squeeze, before he turns around. 

 

_“F/N?”_

 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”

 

“It’s all right,” he says a little groggily now, detangling himself from you as his mind begins to operate and switching the bedside lamp on as he sits up slightly. 

 

“It’s fine,” you murmur, feeling regret that you’ve managed to disturb him and wake both his mind and body up. “Just a dream I think.” You give him half-a-smile now that’s supposed to be reassuring and then throw your arm around his middle again, snuggling your head into his side. He puts a bewildered arm around you and begins to stroke at your hair. 

 

“Are you sure that there’s nothing-?”

 

“’M fine.” Your head wriggles against him. 

 

“It’s not about what happened last year or the upcoming court case is it?” Mycroft knows that you’re not looking forward to giving evidence in the New Year. He’s worried that your dream was connected to that. He’s not sure what he’s going to do if you start going downhill. He doesn’t know how to cope with such things. 

 

“No, no I'm fine,” you persist, but he’s not convinced. “I just love you and I need you sometimes that’s all.” His face softens now and he feels something pleasant wriggling inside his chest. 

 

“I love you too, very much.” You lift your body up and as you both hug one another properly now he doesn’t see how your expression changes into being a troubled one as you wonder if he’ll always love you. 

 

He does however know that there’s something not quite right with you, but though he keeps a close eye on you over the next few days, both when you’re at work and otherwise, you bounce back into your more normal behaviour, joking around with Anthea and being as confident as he’s ever seen you. 

 

Things don’t change until about a week later. Mycroft’s taken you out to that same restaurant again and the pair of you have spent a pleasant evening together. You’ve just stepped out and are about to signal for a cab when Mycroft’s phone rings. Seeing that it’s important he takes the call apologetically, but you wave a hand. The interruption is all right to you. You’ve spent a lovely night laughing and flirting with your man and you feel drunk more from that than from any of the wine that you’ve consumed. You’re quite happy just to drift around and think back on the night, whilst you wait. Hands inside the pockets of your coat now you take a few steps away from where Mycroft’s stood underneath the awning of the restaurant with a furrowed brow as he listens. You look around as you walk. Going so far as the corner that turns onto the closest bridge it’s then that you spot something. Through the small bustle of people-a mix of those who have finished late at work and couples and others that are just enjoying a night out-you see a silent figure. A young man who’s just staring down into the Thames. You can see even from this distance that he looks sad and if anyone else notices then they don’t show it. You recognize something though and so you move forwards again. The man startles as you suddenly appear by his side. His hazel eyes look suddenly wild, hair tousled from the wind beneath his white baseball cap. His trousers are slung low on his body. He is too cool to be staring into the Thames’ watery depths. 

 

“Hey.” Your hand jerks, as if you’d like to touch at his arm, but you don’t. “I know that what you’re going through might seem like it’s tough, but”-

 

“What the hell you on about?” The man jolts back from you. 

 

“I was just”- You wave your hands now. Your heart beats unevenly inside of your chest. There is no script for this. No words to be followed. You just realize that you’ve made a really big mistake. 

 

“You think that I'm going to kill myself? Jump off this bridge? You don’t know anything about me.” The man looks angry now. When you don’t make to move and just continue to fumble your words he pushes out at you. 

 

 _“Excuse me!”_ an indignant and altogether too familiar voice growls out from behind you. You look over your shoulder. Mycroft, who’d followed you in confusion as soon as he’d seen you disappear around the corner, his shoes slapping against the pavement, is standing there. He lowers his phone from his ear and returns it to his pocket, moving until he comes to be between you, arms outstretched. His eyes fix on the man now. “I don’t know what’s going on here or how you know one another, but I'm sure that whatever it is gives you no reason to push my girlfriend around in such a way.” 

 

“She’s _your_ girlfriend?” the man exclaims, making a ‘tching’ sound now. His body does a little roll, before it settles back down again in its relaxed way. He gestures with his hands and his gold chain tinkles against a red and white American football shirt that is too big for him. “Then might I suggest that you get control of your dog yo? That bitch she’s gone crazy. Thinks that I'm gonna jump off this bridge.” He makes that sound again. “Get her under control. Know what I'm saying?” He laughs, before his lip curls. 

 

It happens in an instant. One moment Mycroft’s body is vibrating with a suppressed rage, but he’s still very much the dapper, formal gentleman that you’re familiar with, the next he’s stepped up and the man is half leaning back over the railing, looking terrified, whilst Mycroft holds him there with one hand and places the tip of his umbrella to the man’s throat with the other. “And might I suggest that you leave here quietly and without saying another word or you’ll find yourself taking a watery dip tonight no matter what your true intentions are. Know what I'm saying?” He throws the style of the man’s speech back at him. 

 

 _“Mycroft…”_ You stare at him, chewing at your lip, both in shock and awe. 

 

The man nods hurriedly, as soon as Mycroft pulls him upright again and moves off just as the eldest Holmes had wanted him to. Mycroft brushes down his suit with one deft hand, before he turns back to you. “I hope I didn't frighten you?” His question is a caring one, but the tone of it is cool. 

 

“No.” You shake your head. 

 

“Come.” His eyes are calculating as they look at you. “We need to go home and have a little talk.”

 

You swallow and feel apprehensive. All the way home you can see how Mycroft’s thinking of how best he can address what’s just happened and it makes you feel nervous. By the time you get home you’ve got a headache and you rush over to the kitchenette, so that you can take a paracetamol. 

 

“What you did,” Mycroft ventures, putting his umbrella in the holder now, “Was very brave.” As you finish over at the kitchenette you make a sound in your throat and head over to the settee, unwinding your f/c scarf and draping it across the back of it. “What made you think though that, that man was on the verge of killing himself? What signs did you see?”

 

Your heart double-beats and you feel panic rising inside your chest like boiling water in a kettle. “Did you manage to finish your phone call all right?” You whirl back around again. 

 

Mycroft’s standing by the door now, eyes watching you carefully, looking like he doesn’t want to be fooled by you since he hasn’t even slipped out of his coat yet. _“F/N?”_

 

“You can ring whoever it is back if you want. I don’t mind. I can make us a cup of tea.” You shrug off your coat now and put it next to your scarf. You can hang them up properly later once things are feeling a bit more settled and you’re feeling like you’re less on the verge of being interrogated. 

 

“F/N”-

 

“I’ll make us that tea.” Decided you turn sharply back towards the kitchenette. 

 

“I don’t want any tea.” 

 

“Of course you do,” you tell him boldly, before you look at him when your words are met with silence. 

 

“I just want you to please stop avoiding the issue and tell me what’s going on here.” You swallow. You try and think of a way out, a way in which you won’t have to explain all of this, but you can’t. Mycroft’s clever. He’ll know that you’re lying. You can see him already beginning to figure it all out. He comes closer to you now until there’s just a small gap between you. Touches at your arm. You can’t bear to look at him. This is the moment that you’ve been running away from for years-your past exploding with your present. You stare at the floor. “Was it an old friend of yours?” Mycroft persists. 

 

“I’d rather not talk about it.” Determined to avoid it all for a little bit longer you shrug him off you and make your way over to the kitchenette. You flick the kettle on and get the cups ready. They make a clinking noise as you place them down upon the counter. 

 

Mycroft follows you and stands just behind you, eyes on your back. “F/N”-

 

“It was me okay?” You whirl around, not being able to take any more of this and feeling angry now. The shock on his face is palpable. You might have just slapped him and as he stands there for once looking both speechless and gormless you realize that despite his mind he might not have figured it out after all, at least not tonight. Might not have even wanted to believe it if he had. You hate yourself all the more now. You could have spared him from whatever he’s going through. Your father had been right. You can’t do anything correctly. Not bearing to wait for his reaction any longer you abandon the tea and him and move to the bedroom. You’re in your pyjamas and sitting up in bed by the time that Mycroft enters with the tea. He hovers by the door for a moment, looking afraid to approach and this is exactly what you hadn’t wanted. For him to treat you differently. Finally he either gets the courage or at least realizes that you aren't about to start venting out all your emotions on him and moves closer. He hands you your cup gingerly, eyes not meeting yours. “I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to break,” you tell him. He nods, clears his throat and settles his own cup down on the bedside cabinet. He glances at the door for a moment as if he’s still in two minds about what the right thing to do here is, before he perches tentatively on the edge of the bed. You watch, heart in your throat, as he slips his shoes off. You will him to be brave as much as you want yourself to be. He swings about and comes to sit next to you. He draws up his knees, before he glances down at you. Slowly you look at him and his eyes flick away instantly. Feeling cowardly yourself now you decide just to give him the broad strokes. That might be enough for the pair of you tonight. “I was sixteen when my mother died. I got a little depressed, but I'm fine now. As you can tell I'm still here.” You wave your hands, trying to be glib and flippant and hoping that works.

 

Mycroft doesn’t understand. It feels like a bomb has just gone off inside his mind palace and though he’s still trying to cling on to the study’s desk there are papers and debris everywhere. He stares in a thoughtful pouting fashion at his knees. “I think I'm going to need to know more than that,” he begins softly now. “Just how far did you go? How close did you get _to-?”_ He swings his head around and looks at you. 

 

“I don’t see _how”-_ you’re desperate and you look around, still trying, even now, to escape like a rabbit attempting to bolt down a hole from a predator. 

 

“Please. I’d like to know.” Looking grim he grasps at your arm. 

 

You stare back at him. “It was just thoughts,” you say in a quiet yet defensive tone. 

 

He can tell that you’re not telling him the truth and your lies scare him. The thought of you standing at the edge of a building somewhere and willing yourself to jump off it makes him feel sick. His fingernails scrape against your pyjama top. “Your father? Did he know about all this?” Mycroft wonders if that’s the only reason you’re alive now. 

 

You pull your eyes away from him. “It doesn’t exactly matter, not any more, but we don’t really get on.”

 

Mycroft stares at you. Again he doesn’t understand the full importance of what you’re saying here. “He talked to you during that time though? He helped?” He cannot contemplate the alternative. 

 

 _“He”-_ You still gaze at the wall that’s dead in front of you. 

 

“I think I’d like to meet him. See your brother in a non-work environment too. You’ve met my parents and you’ve come across Sherlock through your work for me, _so”-_

 

“I'm not sure that’s wise Mycroft.” Slowly you look at him once more. You feel a little anxious, but no way near as scared as you know that you should be at the prospect of Mycroft meeting your father. You’re going back to that numb place that protects you. Curling yourself up in that candyfloss cloud. “My father and I…we haven’t exactly spoken to one another in a while.”

 

Mycroft lets go of you. His hands become fists by his side. “How long exactly is a _‘while’_ F/N?” He looks at you. 

 

You don’t do the same to him. “Couple of years.” You shrug. The truth is that you haven’t spoken to your father since you’d left home aged seventeen. 

 

Mycroft does a quick calculation inside his head. “You mean aside from the time that you spoke to him after the threats began and everything that happened with Max?” You’re silent. How can you possibly tell Mycroft with his two loving parents that your father hadn’t contacted you at all during that time? That your father has made it very clear to you that your life is disposable to him? You feel a flare of anger inside you. Mycroft looks at you worriedly. “Well, I'm sure he’d appreciate seeing you again if its been a while, and to meet me, and I’d like to get the opportunity to tell him about all of your achievements at work.” You make a disbelieving sound. _“F/N?”_

 

“Nothing.” Your father won’t care about your job as Mycroft’s assistant. He’ll probably think that Mycroft’s been foolish by taking a risk on you. At the moment you’re even beginning to think that he’s been silly for giving you that chance. “Tea’s getting cold.” You sip at it clumsily. 

 

Mycroft again feels anxious as he stares at you. _“F/N?”_

 

“It’s fine Mycroft. Anyway, I'm glad now that you get why I felt like I knew what was going on earlier. I'm so glad that it was just a silly mistake aren't you?” You’re speaking far too quickly and with such a false cheerfulness that it makes Mycroft’s heart chirrup quickly in his chest like a frog. “I think I’ll finish my tea and then have an early night. Feel free to carry on with what you need to.”

 

Mycroft knows a dismissal when he hears one and takes his tea back out of the room. He needs to think. All throughout that night he does so, barely touching at his tea and in the end it becomes so cold that he doesn’t bother. He paces back and for mainly, before, feeling weary and tired he throws himself into the armchair. He can’t stay there long though. He gets to his feet and crosses to the bedroom, peering in. There’s a strip of moonlight coming through the voile curtains and he can see that you’ve got your back to the door. Your hands clutch onto the pillow. To him you suddenly appear very small and distraught. He goes across and sits on the edge of the bed now, twisting around and staring down at your fanned out hair, stroking it ever so slightly. He keeps on wondering why he hadn’t pushed you more about your past. He’d known about your mother and known that you found her a difficult subject to speak of and so he’d let you brush him off by just carrying on with what you needed to do or even with a joke. He’d known that you’d loved her and so he’d just assumed that you’d come from a similar background as him with two loving parents and an annoying brother. Now he finds himself questioning everything that he knows about you and every encounter the pair of you have ever had just in case you’d said something that he should have picked up on. He re-files everything in his mind as he looks for clues. One of the most worrying things that he starts to wonder is if he’d categorized your behaviour after Max’s death in a false manner. At first he’d taken your gloom as being perfectly normal. Now however he’s wondering if you’d been more depressed than he’d thought you were and he should have done something. Suggested a counsellor or tried to talk to you more himself. It’s both a scary and terrible thought that you might have committed suicide during that time and left him in a state of bewilderment and confusion. Scary that he could have missed something about you and it could have led to all of that because he’d been trying so hard to move on from everything himself. Scarier still in some ways to think that you could have committed suicide when you were just sixteen. The pair of you would never have met then. You’d never have worked for him. He’d never have laughed at your comments or felt pleased and proud as he’d watched you grow in your job. He would never have felt embarrassed or jealous as he had during the period with Max, never have got to take you out anywhere, to be affected by you so or to kiss you at the end of the night and he’d probably be lonely in his bed right now…

 

When you wake you feel groggy and weird. Your throat feels dry like it does sometimes when you feel unsettled and your jaw clenched like you’ve been trying so hard not to scream during the night. It takes you a moment to remember what had happened the previous evening and your heart sinks. You wish that you could go back and change it and have it so that you’d never gone to try and help that man. Then Mycroft would never know about any of this. You realize suddenly that not only are you on your back, but that heaviness you feel isn’t being purely created on the inside. You jerk your head up off the pillow and feel baffled for a moment when you see that the duvet and all the sheets covering you have been pushed right back to the bottom of the bed and Mycroft, clad in his t-shirt and underwear, is halfway down you, apparently asleep with his strong arms wrapped around your middle. His nose pushes against your side and he makes a slight snuffling sound, hands flexing as they increase their grip on you. Slowly you reach down and carefully touch at his hair. His eyes flick open. He glances up at you. “What are you doing?” you ask him, half-amused, whilst the other part of you feels bewildered. 

 

“Trying to instil inside you just how very loved you are,” he growls groggily, twisting around now and pecking at your stomach. 

 

You squirm pleasurably at his touch, but still you feel uncomfortable. “I don’t want this to change things between us Mycroft.”

 

“It does so for the better,” he rumbles, sliding upon you. You let out a bit of a gasp and grasp onto the back of his shoulders. “I know you more now.” 

 

“I'm still capable at work.” You feel keen to get that point through to him. 

 

“Hush.” He kisses you roughly. “I know just how capable you are.”

 

You feel slightly relieved, but still worried that you’ve gone down a path that you can’t go back from.

 

*

 

You feel further encouraged though when work progresses as normal and instead of coddling you or treating you strangely Mycroft, if anything, gives you more to do. 

 

The only strange thing that happens is that Anthea asks if you’d like to go for a drink with her. You accept, but give Mycroft the chance to object about it when you’re alone in his office together and you tell him about it. He just nods however and looks at you levelly; finally adding that maybe it’ll be a good thing for you. You feel uncomfortable though so after having just the one drink you tell Anthea that you better go. 

 

“Everything all right between Mycroft and you?” Anthea sips at her drink more leisurely now, casually checking her phone from where she’s left it laying on the bar. “I don’t want to come in between any squabbles if you go at it during work.” 

 

You hover for a moment and feel on the verge of confessing to her exactly what’s going on, but then you draw back from the idea. You’ve already made things difficult enough with Mycroft as it is. You don’t see what good could come from telling Anthea too. Unless it starts to effect work then you decide to hold off for now. “Yeah.” You get off your stool and shift from side to side awkwardly. “It’s just that we’re going to his parents’ house for Christmas and I think he wants to make the most of all the time we have alone before then.” You’re proud of yourself when you manage not to even blush, but then Anthea turns her head and looks at you with such a knowing amusement about her eyes that it makes you realize something. “You know don’t you?” 

 

“Yeah.” You swallow. You should have known that Mycroft would have told her. “Did you really think that Mycroft was just going to let things carry on as normal? He told me to keep an eye on you and had an extra word with your security detail.” You sigh. That man. 

 

 _“Wait…_ did the two of you plan that I’d come out for drinks with you tonight?” Anthea looks suddenly guilty. “What’s Mycroft doing that he wanted me out of the way for?” You take off and worry all the way home. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s just coming off the phone when you enter. He looks grimly pleased about something. 

 

“Hey.” 

 

You try and be casual, but something in your face must give it away for he says, “You know that Anthea knows?” 

 

“Yeah.” You hang your coat and scarf up, before you face him again. “What have you been up to? Who were you on the phone to just now?”

 

“Your father.” Time seems to slow right down. You mouth the words, _‘You what?’_ “Yes. I spoke to your brother earlier and got your father’s number off him. He seemed happy about the idea of seeing us. I really think that you’ve been worrying about nothing all this time. He invited us for Christmas. Your brother’s going there too. I said of course that we've already got plans”-you’ve been breathing shallowly for all of his words, but you feel faintly relieved now at remembering the spanner in the works-“But then your father said that we could very kindly stay with him for a couple of days before Christmas, so that we can all really get to know one another and still be able to travel up and get to my parents in time for lunch on the day itself.” He looks at you a little breathlessly now as if you should be pleased and grateful and throwing yourself into his arms. Instead you just feel like you want to escape. 

 

“I hope you told him that we've got work,” you say with a bit of an edge to your tone.

 

“We can take it off.” Mycroft shrugs casually now and that’s when you know that you’re really screwed and not getting out of this. If Mycroft’s fine about having time off then he must _really_ be concerned about you. 

 

“Your father seems like a very nice man.” You don’t feel relieved by the assessment. You know by now that this is what your father does. He makes everyone publicly think that he’s clever, charming and wonderful when in private he couldn't be anything but. “He told me that you’d just got the wrong end of things. That you’d taken off when you were seventeen and barely spoken to him since. He told me how terribly fretful you can get.” Mycroft looks troubled for a moment. “But I think, and he agrees with me here, that this might be an opportunity to put such things behind you.”

 

“Like that’s going to happen,” you mumble underneath your breath now. Your father’s only issued the invitation in the first place you’re sure to keep up his persona of innocence and grace and to try and clip your wings. Mycroft’s just given him a Christmas present. 

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Nothing. I'm sure we’ll have a good time. Thanks for arranging it.” You go up and peck him on the cheek. There’s no point in trying to dissuade him you know. It’s too late for that. The most you can do is hope that he’ll see the truth. 

 

Still, that wish doesn’t stop you from talking to Anthea in work the next day. 

 

She however seems to be of a similar opinion to Mycroft. “It might be the best thing for you in the end F/N,” she says, and you can tell that she’s spoken to Mycroft again and is just toeing the line. “I know it will be difficult, but family re-unions are sort of what Christmas is about isn’t it? Or part of it anyway. In any case you have the potential for something good here. If your father genuinely wants to get to know you again then that’s a win for you and if he doesn’t then hopefully, like you say, it will make Mycroft more understanding of your situation.” You’re not convinced. Anything involving your father in your mind is a negative. That’s just the way its been for years. 

 

*

 

You’re quiet on the way to the sleepy seaside town you’d grown up in, body ravaged from a nightmare you’d had where your father had spoken to Mycroft. You feel glad that you hadn’t woken your boyfriend when you’d gotten up in the middle of the night, feeling sick from it all, and snuck out for a glass of water, before you’d returned to his side. He watches you now though, as you look desolately out of the train window. He can feel your trepidation about the whole trip from where he sits opposite you and he worries that he’s done the wrong thing by forcing you to come back here. 

 

As the landscape changes from city to industrial to countryside the first few flakes of snow begin to fall across the barren rolling hills of green and brown. The trees have already been made bare by the wrath of autumn. Rain spits against the carriage windows. 

 

Finally the train comes to a creaking stop in the small station of the town and Mycroft feels glad that he can get away from the smell of the meat pastry that someone had been eating in the seat across the aisle. It had been making him hungry. As others get going more willingly than you he chivvies you out of your seat and gestures that you should put on your black cardigan to combat the cold chill that’s coming in from the coast and causing the carriage to wobble slightly. You do so with a reluctant sigh. He tries to give you a bit of a look, but the expression that’s on your face reminds him of how he feels whenever he goes home, though he gets the sense that yours comes from a less childish place and from a more sorrowful one. Feeling a little nervous himself now he pulls down both of your cases from the shelf above you and together you walk off the train. Once you’re on the platform you both stop and adjust, so that you can wheel your luggage behind you. Mycroft’s also carrying his trusty umbrella. 

 

He tries to be optimistic. “Well, this is pleasant.” The sight though of the seagull droppings, which stain the nearby café and the walls of the station, not to mention the overflowing bin, which sits nearby, makes him want to wash his hands. 

 

Not fooled you snort. “It’s not far.” You brush your hair away from your face now and take the lead. You feel grateful though for his attempt at enthusiasm. Something about having him by your side _here,_ in the very place where you’d considered taking your own life, makes this both easier and more difficult to deal with. “Don’t blame me though will you? No matter what you might hear,” you can’t resist saying, as you look back over your shoulder at him. In the widening area he hurries to draw level with you. 

 

“Blame you?” He looks confused. “My dear I”-the pair of you head out through the electronic doors _-“Goodness!”_ Mycroft exclaims, as the sharp and tangy wind hits the both of you full force. Stupidly the both of you try and shield one another, grasping and trying to push the other behind them. Eventually you come to an awkward sort of truce where you shuffle off to the side where it’s a bit more sheltered thanks to the overhanging roof. 

 

“Sorry,” you apologize, “I should have warned you. It gets quite rough in winter.”

 

Mycroft’s already shaking his head and readying his umbrella, luggage sitting patiently off to the side of him. Neither of you are quite sure how successful his favoured weapon of choice will be against the strong gale that’s blowing, not to mention the splatter of rain, but you know better by now than to think that Mycroft will listen if you object. In any case you’re not exactly against being forced to cosy up to him. 

 

“Oh dear, oh F/N it is you! What a wonderful surprise!” comes a voice now and your heart freezes inside your chest, whilst Mycroft’s head jerks up so fast that it threatens to come off from his neck completely, so keen is he to learn more about your old life here. An elderly woman, one of those who you used to see about the place doing her shopping and who seems to be doing the same now if the trolley behind her is anything to go by, joins you. She looks delighted and completely ignorant of how wild her grey curled hair looks with the weather, but you feel a little irked by the fact that even though its been years since you’d lived here and you feel like you’ve grown and changed so much she’d still managed to recognize you. “Oh you’ve grown so much.” She gestures wide with her hands. Your old sensitivities returning you feel offended. Does she mean that you’re fat? You’d like to think that though you’re curvy you’re not as bad as you once were. “What is it that you do now again? _Oh”-_ she suddenly notices Mycroft who forces a rather tight smile for her and her eyes hone in on him now-“Who’s this? Don’t tell me that you’re married F/N dear and you didn't even invite me to the ceremony?” She laughs. 

 

“This is Mycroft and no we’re not married,” you say dryly. 

 

“What a strange name! Where does it originate from I wonder?” She studies Mycroft intently for a moment, hand on her chin. The shopping trolley gives off a wobble in the wind. “Friend of yours F/N dear?” She looks at you enquiringly. 

 

“He’s my boss actually.”

 

 _“Oh.”_ The woman looks even more shocked now just like you knew she would and you feel a smidgen of pleasure. “Is this a business trip then?”

 

“No, he’s my boyfriend too.”

 

Mycroft snorts at your game playing. The old dear looks at him. “Were you one of those who helped F/N after her mother died?” He too feels like issuing his own challenge. 

 

“Well,” she falters, “I offered my condolences of course”-

 

“In that case then I'm afraid we better be off.” Without any further ado he grabs at his luggage with one hand, holds the umbrella over you both with his other and uses his elbow to help nudge you forwards. 

 

“That was good,” you contemplate, holding onto his arm now, “Can we just act like we do when we’re at work?”

 

Mycroft gives you a soft stare of contemplation, before he lets out a breath and stops you both. The umbrella is being battered by the wind, but he ignores it, looking back at where the old woman is still watching you from underneath her shelter. “If we can really give Mrs”-

 

“Dixon,” you supply helpfully now. 

 

“Mrs. Dixon,” Mycroft continues with a roguish smile, “Something to talk about then yes, I might consider it.”

 

Beaming you pull his face to yours. You kiss passionately, all tongues and nipping teeth that graze against you and make you shiver. You withdraw though when Mycroft draws the umbrella down like a spear and you get a splash of rainwater in your face, before you shudder pleasantly at feeling the brush of your boyfriend’s fingers against your derrière. “I think Mrs. Dixon might be getting the wrong idea.” You look at him reprovingly now and move his hand away in spite of your earlier feelings. 

 

“Or the right one. That you are mine and I am very proud of you.” He looks at you challengingly for a moment, before he tilts his head back and looks gorgeous, free and flushed beneath it all, hair plastered down into curls against his forehead. 

 

“You’re mad Mr. Holmes.” You tilt your head back too and for one moment you feel exhilarated and alive as you stand there, half cradled by your lover as his umbrella is swept against your back. 

 

Mycroft looks down at you consideringly. “I guess whatever I could be blaming you for doesn’t matter then if I'm mad.” Your face changes into one of realization as you look back at him. Both your face and his soften as your eyes meet. “I'm on your side,” he announces tremulously. “I'm not going to forget that no matter what I might be told.”

 

You love him more in that moment then perhaps you have during any so far. You brush his hair back with a careful hand and hold it there, whilst you kiss him both in a way that’s loving and full of gratitude. “Thank you,” you say as you pull back. He nods as if he is merely doing his duty. “Come on then.”

 

Ready more so now than ever before you make your way two streets away to the promenade. The sea’s waves are splashing over the barrier and though Mycroft notes them a little fearfully he wastes no time in putting his body between the raging water and you, not taking any chances despite the fact that you’re across the road and on the pavement on the other side. Deeming the umbrella useless he closes it again and the both of you are soaked by the time that you reach the house, which you’d grown up in, and is now more grey than cream in its colour. You lead Mycroft through the rusted, pointy metal gate, down the short path and towards the doorstep. As you approach the door opens and Robert emerges. 

 

“F/N. Mycroft.” He nods at the pair of you. “You picked a good time to arrive.” He gestures to the weather and just by the slightly breathless tone of his voice you can tell that he’s nervous and less of the Foreign Secretary now. “Come in, come in.”

 

It’s not until you get in the hallway though and Mycroft puts his umbrella in the holder and closes the door behind you that the both of you properly get the chance to look at your brother. You’ve seen him about on the odd occasion through your work with Mycroft and on the news of course, but up close now you can see how the strain of his job is starting to reveal itself through his arrogant features. The shadow beneath his eyes, which look like they've been pinched between two lines. The slight premature graying of his hair-he’s doing his best to make up for that though with the glamour of his clothes. His black and navy squared three-piece suit and silver pocket watch is almost enough to rival Mycroft’s dark three-piece suit and gold pocket watch-you’d suggested that he wear something more comfortable, especially since you’d be travelling, but he’d insisted, no doubt wanting to create the best impression he could for your father. It’s not Mycroft’s attire that you think will be the problem though.

 

“Sis,” Robert says with an edge to his tone, grabbing delicately onto your shoulders now as you let your luggage rest upright in the hallway and kissing you on the cheek. He shakes hands with Mycroft and Mycroft’s sure that for all of your ideas about Robert not caring he doesn’t imagine the rather level and protective look of an older brother that he’s given. He’s quickly distracted though when you sneeze, covering your mouth with a rather apologetic look about your face as the two men stare at you. Robert wipes his hand surreptitiously on his trousers. “Nothing personal. Just the dreadful weather you know,” he says when Mycroft catches him. 

 

Mycroft tries to be understanding now, but there’s something rather hard in his eyes as he says, “Of course. We’ll be wanting to see Mr. L/N and then perhaps you could show us a suitable place in which to tidy up in?” 

 

Robert hesitates for a moment, before he says smoothly, “I’d do it the other way around if I were you.” He looks at you. “F/N will be able to show you.” He eyes you keenly now as if you need to pay great attention to his next words. “I know its been a while since you were back here, but Father still doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

 

“I remember.” 

 

You make to grab at your luggage again and Mycroft moves to do the same, but Robert says, “Leave them where they are.” Mycroft looks quizzical, you suspicious. 

 

Finally you nod. “Come.” You reach for your boyfriend’s hand and guide him upstairs. You notice that the stair carpet has changed. What used to be a dull green is now a royal blue. Robert looks after you both with a bit of a sigh. 

 

 _“Robert?”_ the questioning, demanding voice of his father calls from the kitchen. 

 

“Coming.” Robert moves there. 

 

In the bathroom upstairs-still very much the same in terms of its colour scheme with its blue and white-Mycroft and you stand, trying to see more of yourselves in the small mirror that’s above the sink. He shrugs his jacket off and rests it on the clothes basket. He turns this way and that, whilst you towel dry and try to smooth back your hair. 

 

He looks at you anxiously now. “I’ve got another change of clothes in my case. I could always-?”

 

You put the towel down and turn towards him, feeling the dampness of his clothes with your hands. Not for the first time you appreciate the exquisite feel of what he’s wearing. The rain has made it seem more silk like. You do a thorough investigation, whilst Mycroft watches you both with bafflement and something akin to amusement inside his eyes. “You’re not too bad.” You smooth down his tie now, before you towel dry his hair somewhat. “Do you think you could wait just a bit longer, before getting out of these clothes? It’s just that Robert was right, Father _doesn’t_ like to be kept waiting and if we want to at least _attempt_ to be on his good side-?” You shrug. You don’t hold out much hope of achieving that. 

 

He nods, finding your hands with his, so that he can try and reassure you. His thumbs run across the edges of yours, but then he frowns and lifts your hands up close to his face. As he twists them his face creases in alarm. “You’ve got a cut.” 

 

You look more closely yourself, feeling intrigued and see that you’ve got a slash between your thumb and forefinger. “Must have got it when I was opening the gate,” you muse. You hadn’t even realized. 

 

Mycroft’s all for searching around for a First Aid kit, but again you impress upon him that time is short, so after merely washing it, the pair of you make your way back out again, Mycroft in his jacket now. You turn for the stairs, but Mycroft suddenly murmurs, “Where did you used to sleep?” You look over your shoulder and see that he’s looking curiously around at the three rooms that have their doors shut. 

 

Moving back around you go to the one that’s closest to the bathroom. “Just in here.” Slowly you push the door open now and Mycroft looks over your shoulder. You know that years have passed, but for some reason you still expect to see the room as you remember it. Small, but cosy. Your very own shelter that you’d made from the storm. A bed, some basic furniture, maybe even a few of your old books, which you hadn’t been able to take with you. The room though has been converted into the blandest of work spaces and it makes your stomach sink. “Oh, well,” you try and cover up your disappointment, “Robert’s room was turned into a guest room when he left. I expect we’ll be sleeping in there.” 

 

Mycroft can feel the pain that you’re going through fill up the small space that’s between you and he takes your hand, giving it a gentle caress and very self-consciously avoiding your cut. “You’ll have to describe how it used to be to me some time.”

 

“Mm.” You shoot him a forced smile now, before you slip your hand out of his and lead the way downstairs. 

 

Robert and your father have moved into the old-fashioned living room with its peeling wallpaper, armchairs, settee, drinks cabinet and books and it is there that you find them, your father sitting upright in the armchair between the bay windows. A glass of scotch already half-drunk on the side table sits next to his favourite pack of cigars. His searching e/c eyes roam across you and he gets that old accustomed sneer that you’d almost forgotten on his face. He looks more like Robert than you, though whilst Robert’s clean-shaven he’s got more stubble on his face than you remember and the beginnings of a beard growing. There is that same stench of weariness about him. The men in your family have not been as prosperous as they’d like to believe. 

 

Your father tries to make up for it when he tells you pointedly, “I told you that you’d come back here.”

 

“I have not come here saying that I’ve failed or with my tail between my legs Father. I came here because you invited us,” you retort sharply. 

 

His eyes slide to Mycroft now and as he stands, coming to be just a tad shorter than your boyfriend, his face converts into something that’s more charming. “You must be Mycroft Holmes.” He smiles. “I have heard a lot about you from Robert here.” He gives his son a smirking look of acknowledgement now, as he shakes Mycroft’s hand. “He tells me that you’re something of a behind the scenes operative that the British government could not do without.” You look at Robert who’s standing in the corner suspiciously. You’d have thought that he would have wanted to make Mycroft’s role sound like a limited one and not anywhere near as important as his. Your father of course pushes any rising hope that you have back down again. “Of course I have to wonder about a man who decides to stay in the shadows rather than openly wanting victory for himself. What can such a man be planning I wonder?” The gaze your father sends Mycroft makes him squirm, but only on the inside. 

 

Sensing such a thing you bluster, “Mycroft’s not planning anything Father. I’d imagine that he’s simply wondering when dinner will be ready like I am.”

 

Your father sends you a patronizing smile now as if you are a small child again whose knowledge of the world is nil. “Always so keen for food F/N. Just how I remember you. Haven’t changed a jot despite all your dreaming have you?” You stare him down. 

 

Feeling a need to interrupt Mycroft says, “I think you’d be pleased with the work F/N is doing for me Mr. L/N. It is of course for me a pleasure I must say to meet you at last.” He feels no such thing as yet. Your father may have once been able to keep a mask, which would appeal to the public on, but it appears that your re-entry into his life has made it slip earlier than it usually would. Mycroft sees a little boy curled up in the man’s soul-shrivelled and wrinkled it betrays the man in front of him. 

 

“Call me Christopher,” your father tells him now. There’s a flash of a smile. Then he turns a sterner gaze back towards you. You can sense what’s going through his mind, _‘You come back here after all this time looking a mess and thinking that you’re something you’re not, but I'm going to bring you back down. Put you in the place that you’ve always deserved.’_ It makes something shake inside you in anger, but still you stare. You’re stronger now. You’re not about to be cowed just because of him. Finally he tears his gaze away from you and says, “Dinner will be ready in a moment.”

 

*

 

Christopher is nice towards Mycroft for the first half of dinner. It almost lulls everyone into a false sense of security, but then he suddenly comes out with, “Where are the two of you planning on staying tonight then?” Mycroft and you exchange a hurried glance. The storm is still raging outside and you can’t imagine that you’ll be able to find much space in the local hotels because of what season it is. You can tell that Mycroft’s already flipping back to the phone call that he’d shared with your father and wondering if he’d been mistaken in the exact terms of your stay. You know that it is not the fault of your meticulous boyfriend however. 

 

_“Father”-_

 

 _“Ha!_ I'm only joking F/N.” Christopher grins. “See how she frets?” He looks at Mycroft now as if he has just scored a point with the other man. Mycroft looks like he’s got indigestion. He’s only been in your father’s company for a short while, but it occurs to him now that Christopher is the sort of typical man who feels that the way to be close to another human being is to fight with them. He has seen such a thing many a time and he supposes now that even his relationship with Sherlock holds an element of that. It makes him feel strange. 

 

You feel annoyed and that doesn’t stop when Christopher seems to do everything he can to irritate you, singing Robert’s praises loudly, belching and making as much noise as possible despite the fact that he’d known before that it set you on edge. You can feel your mind growing into a more confused one of hurt and anger. Feel it becoming more negative and you hate it.

 

Sensing your unhappiness Mycroft tries to stand up for you since you can’t currently seem able to do so for yourself, trying to get a good word in here and there about the work that you’ve done and those moments where he honestly wouldn't have known what he would have done without you. He is generous and effusive in his praise, but Christopher brushes it aside as if it is both nonsense and an exaggeration. 

 

After dinner he tells you to wash up and show your gratitude for the meal you’ve just had. You agree because you think it might give you the chance to be alone and collect your thoughts, gear yourself up as you come to terms with the fact that it will always be the same when you come back here. Time has not changed your father’s attitude and nor has it healed you completely. 

 

“I’ll assist,” Mycroft volunteers, wanting to be close to you and help you through this process. 

 

Your father lets out an exaggerated laugh now, as if your boyfriend is a very funny man. “No, you will come with us and we will talk.”

 

Mycroft looks at you anxiously. You nod at him to go. He feels unsettled about leaving you on your own in the kitchen. He knows that you’re upset about the way that things are going and feels bad for his own role in making you come here. He follows Robert and Christopher back into the living room. Whilst Christopher takes up his armchair again Robert pours them all a generous helping of scotch. Mycroft perches nervously on the edge of the settee with his glass. He has never done this before-spoken in such a formal setting with the relations of the woman he is dating. It makes him feel on edge.

 

Once again though Christopher lets the moment build, talking pleasantly and offering Mycroft a cigar, which he declines. Robert and Christopher smoke one each though and both the sight and smell of the smoke fester in the air. Mycroft sticks rigidly to his one glass of scotch and Robert only has a little bit more, but Christopher drinks until he has become loud and merry, beginning to slouch down on his chair. The sight of him makes Mycroft feel ill at ease and he looks around, not knowing where you’ve got to, but wishing that he could join you. Robert departs for bed and Mycroft begins to rise, thinking that it is now safe for him to go, but Christopher waves him back down and leans forwards suddenly. 

 

“We haven’t had that talk yet.” He pats at Mycroft’s leg now. Mycroft swallows and nods. Christopher leans back again. “Now it is just us perhaps you might feel more confident in telling me just what it is that you’ve got planned for my daughter?”

 

“Oh, well I”- Mycroft opens his mouth clumsily.

 

“I'm not talking about marriage Mr. Holmes. Though if you offered her that option then I would be intrigued about why you were doing so, just like I am intrigued now about what has prompted this little office romance of yours.” Mycroft feels a little confused now. Does Christopher expect him to explain how he’d fallen in love with you? Expect him to speak of the many little private moments that had passed between you in the enclosure of his office? “Has some offer of career advancement been made to you? One where for whatever reason it would look better if you had a partner? Are you about to step out of the shadows Mr. Holmes?”

 

“I am not with F/N for my career,” Mycroft gets out hurriedly, feeling shocked by the notion, but he thinks deep down that Christopher must be saying all this from a place of love rather than greed and ambition. Feels sure that deep down the man must care for you even though he’s incapable of expressing it in any way that appeals to you. 

 

“Well I can’t see what other reason you would be with her for.” Christopher says such a thing in between sipping at his scotch now as if it is a perfectly rational sentence for him to come out with, but Mycroft feels appalled. He tries to imagine his own father saying the same thing about himself and he just can’t. Edwin would never be so cruel. “She is not pretty. In fact she is as clumsy and slippery as a fish. Always up to something, but with a brain far more primitive than you and I like the fairer sex tends to harbour. I have never been able to trust her Mycroft, so I am sending you this warning now.” The electricity in Mycroft’s mind palace flickers. He cannot believe what he is hearing. He’d expected to be given the speech of a protective father. Not expected said father to try and shield him from _you._ “You might think that you’re lucky. To you she might now seem a healthy weight, but she used to be a lot bigger and she’s got the capacity to be the same again.”

 

Mycroft stands up. Trembling ever so slightly he says, “I will not hear any more of this… _nonsense._ I don’t why you’ve come to think that about F/N, Mr. L/N, nor why you think it would be something that we could bond over. All I know is that you should be proud of F/N and you aren't and you do myself a great injustice by ever thinking that I could share those feelings about your daughter. She is pretty. In fact she is the most beautiful woman I know, both inside and out and if you have succeeded in planting any of your foolish thoughts inside her then it is my job to do the best I can to get rid of them.” With that he hurries out of the room, breathing heavily, as he moves upstairs. He nearly stumbles into where Robert’s sleeping on the floor on a camp bed in his father’s room, before he locates where you’re hunched down in another bed in another room. The sight of you makes his heart swell and he has a moment of foolishness. He rouses you from your slumber, feeling the need to protect you and get you as far away from there as possible. He switches on the bedside lamp’s light, full of the idea of whisking you away. But when you sit up sleepily with your bed hair and confusedly blinking e/c eyes he realizes just how stupid he’s being. Though the pair of you might leave in the morning it would be foolhardy to make you do so now, to drag you out in the cold and dark where the wind is still blowing at force and put you at the mercy of the night. He would be the one endangering you then. 

 

“Mycroft what is it?” You stare at him anxiously, ready as always to act if he should need you to. He loves you perhaps more in that moment than he has during any other. Loves how selfless you are despite the fact that you’ve got every right to be selfish. Loves how you’ve managed to pull yourself out of this life and he knows in that moment that it doesn’t matter where you’ve come from, only where you’re going.

 

“Nothing my love.” His face softens. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“It was my father wasn’t it?” you ask him fearfully once he’s undressed and joined you in bed. You’re worried now that your father’s got to him. That he’s persuaded Mycroft with his charm of just how innocent he is compared to you and made Mycroft doubt that he wants to be with you any more. “He’s made you see how”-

 

“You’re not useless,” Mycroft growls, pulling you close and your hand goes flush against his chest. You feel both surprised and a glimmer of hope inside you. “Get that thought right out of your head and remember instead how very proud I am of you and how much I love you. I meant what I said earlier. You’re invaluable to me. Not just at work.” His voice softens, turning almost shy. 

 

You feel waves of relief crashing into the cliffs of doubt that you’d built up in your mind. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d secretly been worrying about all of this and you begin to cry. A little noisily at first, before you begin to calm down, somewhat because you don’t want either Father or Robert to hear that you’re upset and mostly at Mycroft’s soothing words and the way that he begins to rock you. “I'm sorry,” you say apologetically, feeling just as rueful and pathetic in that moment as your father probably wants you to. “It’s just I know what he does is more mental than physical. But he still wants to control me and know every little thing about my life. I used to have all of these dreams inside of me and he used to try and crush every single one of them by making me feel that I was never good enough. He spent a lot of my childhood feeling jealous if I took some of my mother’s time and attention, but Robert was his little star and just like you’ve seen tonight he never let me forget it. I know that I probably sound like I'm being stupid and jealous, but I wanted a fair chance. An equal opportunity. Not a father who acted like the grass was always greener on the other side.” Tears splay upon your face now. “I didn't want to be made to feel bad for just going through puberty and putting on a bit of weight.” You both look and feel self-conscious now. “I mean every single woman on both sides of my family has big thighs. What was he expecting? For some miracle to happen and for it to just skip a generation like its never done before? Well I'm sorry that I couldn't live up to your perfect expectations Dad.” You say that last part a little louder, before you sniffle. 

 

“You live up to mine,” Mycroft murmurs, stroking at your hair and looking into your eyes. “I'm sorry for underestimating you too when we first met.” 

 

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault. You didn't know me. At least you gave me a chance,” you say. 

 

“But you have never failed to surprise me since and I'm so very glad that you’re in my life F/N.” You know then, with the meaning that he puts behind his words that he gets it. “It was your father wasn’t it? He was the one who made you feel like committing suicide?” You nod, tears wobbling in your eyes now, your breath unsteady. You feel like apologizing again, but before you can Mycroft lets out a long and very heavy sigh, before he kisses your forehead and holds onto you close. “He’s just your biological one F/N. Nothing more. Nothing worth getting upset about any more.” You nod. You know that. “I want you to know,” he begins tremulously now and you pull away, so that you can look at him properly, “I wouldn't normally just offer this to anyone”-he smiles now to try and get you to do the same-“But you can always share mine if you’d like. He’d be extremely proud to have you as an honorary daughter.” You smile, liking that thought. “In fact both he and Mummy would be very pleased if you treated them like parents, though Mummy could never replace your mother of course, and if you sought shelter with them when you need to.”

 

“I’d like that.” 

 

Mycroft looks pleased that his words have been accepted. “For now I think we should get some sleep and then, if you’d like to do so, we could head to my parents’ home a little early. I'm sure they wouldn't mind and they’d only be too glad to receive us.”

 

“If you’re sure,” you say, but again you like the sound of that. 

 

He switches the light off and you snuggle close to each other in the cold bed. “I just thought that time might change things.” It is that sad sentence, said between a yawn and with the sleepy innocence of a child that truly gets Mycroft’s heart breaking. 

 

*

 

Mycroft is the first to wake that morning. The bed is now warm and snug. You’re curled up by his chest, head tucked underneath his chin. He feels regret once he remembers where you both are and what had happened the previous night. Pulling away from you slowly he rolls around and checks his phone out of habit despite the fact that he knows he won’t be doing any work today. Once he slips it back onto the bedside cabinet he moves back around again. You’re still asleep. There’s a crease on your forehead and Mycroft absent-mindedly tries to smooth it out with his thumb. Not having any success though and reluctant to press too hard against your skin just in case he should wake you, he leans back and listens to the sound of the old creaking house for a moment. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but he can picture the sight of a younger, more worried you moving around in it. It unsettles him, the haunted, troubled look on your old face. He hopes that he never has to see that expression again, in his head or otherwise, once the both of you get out of here. Trying to make himself feel better now he focuses on achieving that goal. Focuses on getting quietly out of bed and dressing, on wondering if he might be able to sneak downstairs and make you breakfast and bring it up without anyone noticing. Two things bother him about this plan. One that you should wake and truly come to feel like you’re still stuck in your past if he is not there beside you. Secondly that he might get caught and inadvertently end up creating more conflict. He listens again. All seems quiet aside from the house. He decides to chance it. 

 

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs, despite the fact that you’re still dead to the world. 

 

He moves as silently as he can out of the room, looking back at you, before he closes the door. He looks apprehensively about him, before he moves stealthily downstairs. 

 

It is not until he nudges the kitchen door open that he realizes he’s made a mistake. Robert is sitting at the kitchen table, musing over a cup of tea and his eyes have already clocked him. 

 

“Apologies,” Mycroft murmurs, “I thought that I could make F/N breakfast.”

 

“Be my guest.” Robert waves a hand now, indicating that Mycroft should use the kitchen as he sees fit. 

 

Tentatively Mycroft moves forwards and locates the bread and plates, before he starts to work on the toast. “You’re up early,” he comments, “But then I suppose for the both of us it comes naturally because of our jobs to do such a thing, even on Christmas Eve,” he ventures, pulling the red and silver toaster forwards, away from the cupboards and popping the bread in. He looks through the fridge for the butter. 

 

“Will F/N and you be leaving today?” Robert asks just as Mycroft pulls the object out and shuts the fridge door again. He sounds almost apprehensive about what the answer might be. 

 

Mycroft hesitates, before he replies, “I think it would be for the best don’t you? This place is not good for her.”

 

Robert lets out a sigh now and shifts awkwardly in his chair. Mycroft looks across at him, once again sensing some sort of conflict going on with the younger man. Robert rakes a hand through his hair. “Listen.” He turns suddenly to Mycroft. “I know you think that I open my mouth too much. I know you think that the truth always escapes me”-Mycroft just stares at him-“But I do care for F/N, as much as it pains me and as much as I’d rather you didn't share it with anybody.” 

 

“ ‘Foreign Secretary cares for sister,’” Mycroft says, as if he is announcing the headline of some tabloid. “It’s hardly a crime Robert.” He understands though. He feels the same about Sherlock, like family and his career have to stay resolutely separate and like with Max before it seems that he has more in common with Robert than he’d like to admit. 

 

“I know,” Robert confesses. “I don’t like what’s been going on. I heard part of what F/N told you and I feel bad for not having done anything all these years and for getting out myself as soon as I could, for leaving her behind.” Mycroft eyes him carefully now. For most of his recent words Robert has been talking to Mycroft’s shoulder, but now he meets the other man’s eyes and swallows determinedly. “I'm not sure that I share Father’s opinion that you’re up to something, that you don’t love F/N. I know the pressures of my own job and I can’t see you wasting any time being with someone unless you truly wanted to be, unless they meant something to you. _However”-_ he gets up now and as the toast pops behind him Mycroft straightens, thinking that this is more like it-“If your relationship with F/N ends badly and it looks to me as if it’s you whose largely to blame then you will have me to answer to. Do you understand?”

 

“I do,” Mycroft nods earnestly, feeling glad that someone in your family is finally showing a sensible attitude. Robert sits back down again. Mycroft relaxes a little and goes back to his toast, talking over his shoulder as he does so, “I can also emphasize with you on the guilt you feel for leaving her behind.” Robert stares at him suspiciously. “Not only do I feel bad for making F/N come here, but I have my own regrets about leaving my brother behind when I took off for university.”

 

Robert nods. “Just look after her. Do what I can’t and what our father never troubled to do.”

 

Mycroft has a thought now. “Just because I can’t ever see F/N coming back here”-

 

“With the exception of Father’s funeral.”

 

Mycroft nods. “Does not mean that the pair of you can’t keep in touch if the both of you should wish it. You’re both in London more often than not. You could always just text and call if you do nothing else at first.”

 

Robert looks in two minds about the idea. Eventually he shakes his head in a wistful fashion. “I think she resents me. It would probably just remind her of everything if we stayed in touch, bring back all the bad memories.”

 

“She most definitely resents you,” Mycroft rebukes him, “But I know that given time and if you made it clear to her that you’re not some sort of spy for your father and that you do genuinely appreciate F/N for all her merits that feeling would be soothed.”

 

“And if it wasn’t?”

 

“Then she’d still have me.” Robert nods thoughtfully now. Having finished buttering the toast Mycroft turns around properly. “We’ll be going to my parents later, but there’s always room for one more if you’d like-?”

 

Robert shakes his head. “I think that’s a bit premature.” 

 

“Yes, I imagined that it might be.” Mycroft picks up the plates of toast. “But do think about what I’ve said won’t you?” To Robert’s surprise Mycroft drops one of the plates down on the table in front of him, touches briefly at his shoulder and then makes for the door with the other. 

 

“Thank you,” Robert manages to utter in surprise, his respect heightening for the other man. 

 

Mycroft waves a backwards hand at him and then trots with the toast upstairs. 

 

You’re awake now and you sit up in alarm as he enters, looking relieved and sleepier when it’s only him. “Mycroft…didn't know where I was for a moment.” You smile, but it’s a hard one.

 

He brushes back your hair and pecks on your forehead lovingly. You chide him for making the toast, but you’re clearly not only pleased, but grateful for it. He sits down beside you as you eat. In time he thinks that he’ll share with you how he believes that Robert cares for you more than you’ve realized after all, but this is not the moment for that. This is the chance to enjoy the calm, before a new day. The chance for some low conversation and excitement about the future. The chance to for once breathe freely in this house knowing that you’ll soon be out of it. 

 

*

 

The goodbye to your father is just as awkward as you’d imagined it would be. Mycroft is polite, thanking him for the invitation and for letting them stay in the first place, though he makes clear his displeasure at the previous night’s words with his eyes. Christopher just grunts. You can’t help but feel disappointed. It’s always this way and you know by now that things won’t change, but it’s like a secret part of you never stops hoping for it. Hoping that one day you might have a better relationship with your father. You wonder now if that makes you mad after everything that he’s put you through. It certainly states that you’re a glutton for punishment. You share a fleeting hug with your brother, but then you get distracted from your meandering thoughts. For as Mycroft and Robert shake hands you swear that you see something passing between them. You feel surprised, before you wonder if it’s just a work thing that you’re not aware of. 

 

Mycroft and you make your way out of there; luggage and umbrella once more in hand and you feel this tension seep out of your shoulders. It’s a clear day today. White and yellow light from the sun make the morning calm, the sea still. Talking softly together as you make your way along the promenade it is not long before Mycroft and you hear a shout behind you. You hope that it’s not another old lady. You turn. To your astonishment you see that it’s your brother. 

 

“Hey, er, here.” A breathless Robert stops before you now and thrusts a small package that has been messily wrapped up in red and white Christmas paper at you. 

 

“Oh, thanks.” You’re so shocked that you miss the gleam of satisfaction that runs across Mycroft’s face. “I um”- you feel suddenly conscious of the fact that you haven’t got Robert anything. Its been years since the two of you have exchanged gifts. 

 

“It’s fine.” Robert waves his hands. “Perhaps you could buy me a drink some time when we’re back in London? Maybe we could even go for dinner? The three of us?”

 

You feel surprised, but pleased. “I’d like that.”

 

“Great.” Robert feels so reassured that he even hugs you-a quick sweep of his arm pulling your face to his chest and then release. “Goodbye.” He exchanges a nod with Mycroft and then scurries back to the house again. 

 

“What was that about?” You look up at Mycroft now.

 

“Maybe your brother has just been caught up in all of this as much as you have,” Mycroft says mysteriously. He wraps an arm around you as you carry on walking. The umbrella rubs against you rhythmically. 

 

“Did you talk to him?” Still you look up at him. 

 

Mycroft’s lip twitches up at the fact that he can get very little past you. Then he replies lightly, “I might have had a conversation with him when I was preparing your breakfast this morning, but to my surprise, and it will come as yours I imagine, your brother did most of the work. He seems very keen to make amends.” Your face falls as you think of something. “It doesn’t mean that you have to speak to your father,” Mycroft catches your thought easily, “But Robert was just a child too remember. Struggling to do his best. How would you have reacted if your situations had been reversed?”

 

You think upon that question thoughtfully as the pair of you reach the station and buy your tickets. You’re still musing over it all during the journey and sensing your preoccupation with it all Mycroft makes the excuse that he needs to go to the bathroom when really he just goes off to phone his mother, warning her of your forthcoming arrival. She seems just as pleased as he’d thought she would be, but she seems to sense what it might mean too. 

 

“Did something happen? Are her brother and father not as nice as they could be?” she asks him.

 

“Her brother oddly, after all the time that I’ve spent criticizing him, seems to at least mean well and would like to have a better relationship with her, but I think it is fair to say that her father’s attitude has taken its toll mentally on F/N throughout the years,” Mycroft confirms sadly. He’s not sure if he should confess just how far, but he wants to make Mummy understand. His voice lowers as he says, “S-She-There was a time when she was considering doing something very foolish because of it.”

 

“Oh dear.” Violet sounds deeply saddened. “Are you sure that time has passed?” she wonders out loud. 

 

Mycroft, suddenly feeling a mad urge to check on you, shifts from his position close to the luggage rack and takes a couple of steps forwards towards where you’re sitting halfway down the train. You’ve got your phone out. You’re probably playing some sort of puzzle game on it. His stomach settles in relief. “Yes, I think so,” he reassures his mother, doing so himself through staring at you. You are there. You are alive. “But you will make her feel most welcome won’t you? Treat her like a daughter?” 

 

“Of course I will dear.” Violet sounds almost insulted now as if she’s wondering how Mycroft could even ask her such a thing. 

 

*

 

It’s a little after lunchtime by the time that Mycroft and you arrive at his parents cottage. The homely sight of it seems to calm you he realizes and at the sight of his parents bursting out of the door to greet you, you look all the more relieved. Giving Violet the red flowers you’d insisted on buying in town, before you’d got a taxi up you receive much fuss and a one armed hug in turn. By the time Edwin kisses you on the cheek you are pleasantly flushed. 

 

“Thank you so, so much for letting me stay and come early”- your words falter as a tall and almost shrouded figure in a long dark coat and with tousled black curls, ivory coloured skin and penetrating eyes steps out of the cottage. You’ve seen Sherlock before of course, but the sight of him now, all intent eyes and folded arms as he stares at you, catches you off guard. It shouldn't though. These are his parents too after all. He has every right to be here. Mycroft similarly tenses, though he does so for a different reason, hoping that his brother will be nice to you. 

 

 _“Sherlock.”_ He nods tersely. As he takes his brother in he sees that Sherlock looks almost satisfied, though there is an air of wanting an itch to be fulfilled about him. His brother is always after the next thing to occupy him.

 

“F/N.” Sherlock’s eyes fix on you. “If you get fed up of my brother during your stay here then you can always come and talk to me. You must be terribly bored of him by now.” 

 

“Oh Sherlock!” Violet bats his arm with her hand. “F/N isn’t about to get bored of Mycroft and nor he of her. They’re in love.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes now. Mycroft coughs in embarrassment, before he says, “Most kind of you brother mine”-he puts a hand on your back-“But I'm sure that F/N will be far too busy during her stay here to take an interest in your little… _oh,_ how shall I put it? _Experiments,_ is I suppose what people being kind would call them.”

 

You feel amused now. “Oh, I'm sure that there’ll be time for me to see one or two.” You glance at Mycroft. 

 

He raises his eyebrow with a pleased sort of surprise upon his face. It is the first time today that you seem more like yourself and the woman that he’s got used to interacting with both at home and work.

 

“Goodness me.” Violet touches at your arm. “What are we all doing standing out here in the cold for? Come in. Come in. Let us have dinner together.” There’s a lot of fuss and noise as you all troop inside. Mycroft puts his umbrella in the holder and Violet sorts out her flowers, before she steers you all over to the bedroom that you’ll be staying in. It looks bright and inviting despite the winter month what with its yellow and white bedspread and a portrait over the bed itself of some glorious daffodils. “Now,” Violet moves her hand away from where it had been pushing the door ajar and puts it on your arm, “Since you’ll be staying here a while”-

 

“We’ll be going back on Boxing Day Mummy,” Mycroft announces. 

 

“Oh, will you now?” Violet places a hand on her hip. “Who put you in charge? Perhaps F/N will want to stay longer or perhaps I’ll decide to send you Mycroft Holmes away earlier and then F/N can have the whole of that nice bed for herself?” Mycroft pales. Sherlock sniggers. You giggle. Mycroft’s face softens at the sight of you. Violet looks between the pair of you approvingly. You get a blush on your face as you notice Mycroft’s stare. Your giggles become more like hiccups. “Now, what I was trying to say dear, before I was so rudely interrupted,” Violet replaces her hand on your arm and again you get that look of laughter about you, “Was that I’ve taken the liberty, since I don’t want you to miss out on anything and when I was preparing everything”-

 

“Oh Mrs. Holmes”-

 

“Violet dear,” she reminds you. 

 

“You shouldn't have gone to any trouble.”

 

“What Mummy is failing to tell you F/N is that really she was just sitting with her feet up and dunking a digestive into a cup of tea, whilst she instructed Father on what needed doing.” Mycroft is pompous in his attempt to look knowledgeable. 

 

Violet swats at him and takes up the challenge her son has presented her with. Putting her hands on her hips once more she says, “Do you know F/N I don’t think I’ve done that once since my children were born.”

 

“Mm.” You nod sagely. “And with children that take up so much time”-

 

“Goodness yes,” Violet grows more conspiratory with you, “Such impossible show-off's. The lot of them.” She puts her arm around you. 

 

Sherlock takes a side step towards Mycroft. “I think letting them talk together is a bad idea,” Sherlock says as both the brothers watch the scene that’s unfolding before them. 

 

“Indeed. I was hoping that they wouldn't team up and go against us.” Mycroft for once shares his brother’s sentiments. 

 

“You better just get used to it boys I'm afraid,” Edwin’s wise words make them jump. 

 

“Oh behave you.” Violet sends a fond look her husband’s way and you find yourself tentatively hoping that your relationship with Mycroft might be like that one day. You look at him discreetly. Does he feel the same way? You know that it’s probably still early days for the both of you when compared to the long-lasting relationship of his parents, far too soon to be thinking of marriage _or…_ anything else, but somewhere inside you, you can’t help but hope for it now that you’re doing well in your career and have got that angle more settled on. “What I’ve been trying to say all this time dear is that I’ve taken the liberty of putting some protection on the bed for you. It’s probably not the right time for you to be getting pregnant now, not with everything that’s been going on of late, but I still want you to feel as if you’re able to indulge, whilst you’re here.” Violet looks serious now. ” 

 

“I don’t think that will be necessary Mummy,” Mycroft says embarrassedly. 

 

“I think dinner’s ready Vi,” Edwin tries to come up with the perfect distraction. 

 

“Oh you boys.” Violet looks around at her men fondly, before she turns back to you. “You do whatever you want dear.” She touches at your arm, before she bustles off towards the kitchen. Edwin and Sherlock disperse. 

 

Mycroft and you shuffle rather shyly into the bedroom, not looking at one another. You settle your luggage down and pull a few preliminary things out of it, ready for later. Mycroft does the same. Eventually the noise you’re both creating through the movement of your things dims and somehow you both find yourselves on either side of the bed, close to the pillow and unable to avoid looking down at where Violet has left three condoms out for use. They’re all in different colours. 

 

“Bathroom’s just around the corner,” Mycroft murmurs as the pair of you stare down at the protection. 

 

“Right.” The both of you gaze down. 

 

“I suppose we could just take them with us once we go?” Mycroft suggests, though he doesn’t look particularly pleased at the thought of using protection that his mother has picked out for him. He chances a glance at you. You too look mixed about what you should be doing with them. “Or we could simply”- he sweeps the condoms up in one hand and moves to hold them above the bin. 

 

You shake your head now and take a step towards him. “Just put them in there for now.” You point to the drawer of the bedside cabinet. 

 

“Very well.” Mycroft does just that. He smiles at you. Still shy you look down at the duvet. He moves around to your side of the bed, kissing you on the neck and squeezing at your shoulders. You feel completely warm inside, desire pooling low in your belly, as your hands falteringly reach up towards him. 

 

“Dinner dears!” Violet calls. 

 

“Right.” Mycroft takes a bit of a deep breath and steps back from you. You glance over your shoulder at him. He offers you his hand, wriggling his fingers a little and you take it, allowing him to lead you back to the kitchen. He lets go of you upon arrival, but still insists on pulling your chair out for you, which you find rather sweet. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

 

Mycroft feels happy as the dinner progresses and he sees you properly starting to relax and lower your guard. He notices that after every time he interacts with you and then looks away again Sherlock is watching you both. It’s not something that escapes your attention either. It’s like Sherlock is trying to figure out the puzzle of two people in love. You find that rather sweet too. 

 

After dinner you help Violet with the dishes, whilst Sherlock and Mycroft, still by the table, squabble about something scientific. Mycroft tries to argue his point from a theoretical standpoint and Sherlock protests that he’s tested such a thing practically and already proven his brother wrong. Mycroft keeps saying that he can’t have. You don’t get exactly what it is that they’re arguing about, but you find yourself smiling and liking listening to them all the same. Violet catches you and you blush shyly, but her own grin just grows. She puts her hand over where yours is drying a dish. Hers is warm, damp and covered in suds. 

 

“Let me show you something dear.” She abandons the rest of the washing up now and dries her hands. You do the same. 

 

The fevered discussion between Mycroft and Sherlock dies down as the pair of you make to leave the room. Mycroft rises, his chair squeaking. 

 

“You can stay there.” Violet looks over her shoulder at him. Mycroft looks at you questioningly. You send him a bit of a nonplussed shrug. He sits back down again. “Come on F/N,” Violet encourages and you follow her out. She takes you into the cosy living room and directs you to the settee. You perch there curiously and watch as she rummages in one of the dresser drawers for a moment, before she triumphantly reveals her prize-a sleek, black photo album. She sits next to you and slowly begins to open it. 

 

You feel like your breath gets dragged from your throat in a staggering fashion when you look down and realize that the plump baby with the beginnings of auburn hair and curious, watery blue eyes used to be what Mycroft looked like. 

 

“He was a little quieter back then,” Violet jokes now, before, as you lean forward and look eager to see more she carries on going through the album. 

 

There’s a photo of toddler Mycroft looking frustrated in a knitted jumper that’s far too big for him, the sleeves dragging on the floor even though he’s got his arms up, another one of him scribbling something down in just his underwear, yet another of him looking busy as he tries to drag a heavy looking encyclopaedia across the floor and then staring at Violet’s pregnant belly wondrously as he wears a serious expression that you yourself can recognize and another of him pulling a bit of a face as he looks down at his new brother. 

 

“I know dear that photo albums are rather like all those computer what-you-ma-call-its that have started springing up where you can put pictures up, as they only show the happy moments a person or family go through. There won’t be any sad moments here.” She swipes a hand across the photo album. Something trembles inside her as she thinks of her lost daughter. The one you don’t even know about. “It’s not a true reflection.” She sniffs, looking at you. You stare at her seriously. “It doesn’t show when families fall out or the strain that people sometimes go through when they’re forced to live together.”

 

A stone sinks inside your heart when you realize that she knows about your past. “Mycroft told you?”

 

“Yes dear, yes he did.” Violet looks grave now. She gathers you into a hug and as you rest your head gently down upon her shoulder she strokes at your hair. “I don’t know exactly what’s gone on with your family through the years, but I want you to know that you have us now, and if you ever want to talk-?” You nod as you pull away from her, feeling embarrassed. “I want you to be in this photo album one day too. Getting married to my son and giving him lots of babies.” Your face flames red. 

 

It’s perhaps to both your blessing and relief that Mycroft, Sherlock and Edwin choose that moment to come trooping into the room. 

 

“Oh no. Mummy you’re not showing her _that?”_ Mycroft groans, looking crestfallen and as if he should have figured out such a thing sooner.

 

“I did say that you might be better off not knowing what was going on here,” Edwin chimes in. Sherlock and he take up position at the back of the settee, whilst Mycroft moves by your side. 

 

Sherlock points and cackles when he sees a photo of a young Mycroft with chocolate smeared all over his face. “That could have been taken yesterday,” he crows. Mycroft sends him a bit of a glare, but soon gets distracted when you grab at his hand and place a kiss in between his knuckles. Sherlock eyes you with intrigue about him, whilst Mycroft looks puzzled, but pleased, as if his embarrassment has been levelled out somewhat by your pleasurable reaction. There’s some low murmuring, which Mycroft and you are hardly aware of-you only hear something about Violet telling Sherlock to help her finish the dishes and then suddenly it’s just Mycroft and you left in the room. The photo album has somehow managed to find its way onto your knees. Your boyfriend sits down beside you. There’s a silence between you for a moment. One where Mycroft flips the photo album shut with a clearing of his throat. It endears you to him even more. 

 

He glances at you and says, “We’ll be going to church later. I'm not religious,” he adds this last bit hastily at your curious expression. “It’s more just a following of tradition. You’re welcome to attend, but you don’t have to.”

 

“No I would like that.”

 

“Right.” He gets up again as if a klaxon has suddenly sounded, turns and stares at you. Not sure what to do he makes a jerking motion with his whole body, as if he’d been considering kissing you on the cheek. Then he changes his mind and simply makes a sound in his throat, hurrying out of the room. 

 

You’ve been thinking of how you’d like to do something for a while, but it’s only right then, and with the photo album still on your lap, that you decide that you absolutely have to. You feel a panic inside you though because you’re still not quite sure what that something should exactly be and it’s already dark and there probably aren't any shops open or anything and you know that even if there were then you’d be hard pushed to really find something special at this late hour. You decide to get up and seek out Violet’s help. She might know what to do. Thankfully you catch her when she’s just coming out of the kitchen. “Violet.” You grab at her arm. 

 

“Is everything all right?” 

 

You move closer to her and speak in a low voice, “I-I want to do something special for Mycroft. I’ve got him a present, but I need to do more. Properly thank him for everything.”

 

Violet looks satisfied for a moment. “You leave it to me dear.” She taps at her nose. You feel relieved. 

 

*

 

Later, and once you’ve finished getting ready for church, you return to the kitchen and find that Sherlock’s the only one there. He’s ready too, though you’re not sure just how approving Violet’s going to be of his loose black tie, ruffled shirt collar and the ink that’s upon his fingers. Even now he’s scribbling what looks to be a set of complicated equations down onto a scrap of paper.

 

“Hey.” You stand by the entrance awkwardly, clutching your dark purse to the plain blue-grey dress that you’re wearing. You hope that it will be suitable for church. You’ve tied your hair up neatly and tried to keep your amount of make-up to a minimum. You hang back now because you’re wary of interrupting Sherlock too much. 

 

He grunts and then looks up at you absent-mindedly. He looks back down again. Carries on with his work. “Don’t you find my brother annoying?” he blurts out suddenly, wondering not for the first time how anyone could possibly want to be with Mycroft. You’d just been sinking into a daydream about Mycroft-more particular about his voice whispering adoration into your ear-and now you blink. “He’s all serious and rule-abiding,” Sherlock begins to elaborate cautiously. You think about how hard-working Mycroft is, how he’s inspired you and made you look up to him. Think of how keen he’d been to make sure that you were protected through all the hassle during the previous year. “He’s so uptight about everything, always fussing,” Sherlock goes on now. 

 

More confident with your own line of thoughts you smile, “I don’t think that you really find those things to be all that terrible Sherlock and neither do I.”

 

Sherlock pulls a face and looks as if he’s about to make a crass retort. Mycroft walks in, before he can. “Sherlock, I do hope that you’re being kind to our guest?” You notice how attractive he looks in his dark suit and tie immediately, but it takes a moment, before he looks at you. “F/N,” he takes you in, arm slipping around your waist as he finishes doing so, “You look beautiful.” He uses a low voice-reminiscent of the one that you’d just thought of-that gets you blushing. 

 

“It’s only a plain dress.” You fidget. “It will be all right for church won’t it? It’s not _too-?”_

 

“It’s fine.” Mycroft smiles now. He turns his attention back to his brother. “Sherlock on the other hand could do with washing his hands and smartening himself up a bit.”

 

“What did I tell you?” Sherlock glances at you, before he gets up grudgingly. Apparently he’s decided that Mycroft is for once on point. He stuffs his ink splattered scrap of paper into his pocket and slouches out of the room. 

 

“Hmm?” Mycroft stares after him. “What was that about?”

 

“Nothing,” you reassure him, curling a hand around his tie. His gaze goes back to you softly. “We were just comparing notes on what we love about you.”

 

“His can’t have been a very long list,” Mycroft jokes, as your bodies bump together. 

 

“Mine on the other hand…” you tease, cupping his head towards you, so that your lips are close, before you kiss him. It’s slow, leisurely and passionate. Disrupted only by the flash of a camera that goes off, which makes you jump. Mycroft and you blink as you pull back from one another. 

 

“Urgh Mummy. You frightened F/N,” Mycroft protests, frustrated as you both turn your heads to see Violet standing there with a camera. Sherlock and Edwin are now behind her. 

 

“Another one for the photo album.” Violet looks delighted. “That’ll be one to show the grandchildren for sure.” Sherlock chokes on thin air. Looking alarmed Edwin whacks him on the back. 

 

Mycroft covers his face with his hand in embarrassment. “I am so, so sorry,” he murmurs apologetically to you, as you all, clad in your coats, go trooping out of the house. You’ll make the walk to the closest village where the church is on foot. “I hope that she wasn’t saying such things when you were alone together earlier?” 

 

“If we give Violet what she wants then we’ll be married with lots of children,” you inform him, just about keeping the blush to a low tone on your face thanks to the bitter breeze that’s swirling all around you. The others have managed to get a little ahead, so you rush to catch up with them now. Mycroft gulps as he follows you. 

 

As you begin to get closer to the village it begins to snow and the light flakes fall upon your shoulders. People that the Holmes’ must know call out friendly greetings to them as you get within the church’s sight and you admire the tall, lit up Christmas tree that stands just outside of it. 

 

Mycroft is once more embarrassed and makes a lot of throat clearing when Violet insists on introducing you to practically everyone in the church, telling them how you’re, ‘her Mykie’s girl.’ “Mummy for goodness sake don’t call me that,” Mycroft tells her crossly once she does it yet again. Violet’s face falters a little, before it becomes stern as she looks back at him. “I’m sure that F/N doesn’t appreciate being called a, _‘girl,’_ either,” he adds, trying desperately to make her see reason now. Violet, with her face softening, looks to you for clarification. 

 

“I don’t mind,” you assure her. It makes something wriggle inside your chest actually. It’s sweet how excited she is. 

 

“Don’t encourage her,” Mycroft groans. Sherlock looks amused. 

 

You take your boyfriend’s hand in the hope that he’ll shut up and make soothing strokes against his skin. This quietens any more protestations that he’d been about to make and once the service begins though you let go of him you remain close and follow the hymns together on one sheet quite comfortably. You feel at home there. Not in the church, though it is certainly a soothing environment to be in, what with its candles, but being surrounded by these people. The sound of the hymns and Mycroft’s rumbling voice next to your own lulls you into a place of comfort and security. 

 

Once you get back to the Holmes’ cottage you have a hot chocolate with everyone and spend a moment just looking around at them all in gratitude. Feeling thankful for them each in turn. Then you hug Mycroft’s parents goodnight, slip a hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder-he looks surprised by the affectionate gesture-and make your way to bed. Mycroft follows quickly after. You fall asleep in his arms and you’re still there when you wake the next morning. 

 

You take a moment, just realizing that it’s Christmas and remembering where you are and feeling so utterly relieved for the fact, before you turn slowly around. Mycroft’s already awake and staring at you. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” he murmurs. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” you say faintly and it really is. From the moment you get up you feel like you’re being embraced in the family’s warmth. Violet gifts you a camera, which she doesn’t allow you to refuse, so that you can help her make more memories for the photo album, Edwin a set of three knitted jumpers, so that you may wear them and always feel warm, no matter what is going on in your life-you nearly start crying then-Sherlock a list he’d made the night before of all the things that you need to be aware of regarding his brother, which you might find annoying. You give him a level look, as if to say that you know he really appreciates those things as much as you do and so know the truth. Mycroft gives you a beautiful matching necklace and bracelet set, which contains both of your birthstones and sparkles in the light like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Whilst you discover that the package your brother Robert had gifted you contains a set of fountain pens that he hopes will be useful for work and which in turn provides you with a promising outlook for your future relationship with him. Indeed you keep having to touch and stare at them. Even the packaging they come in seems like a miraculous wonder to you. Mycroft and you between you give Violet and Edwin tickets to a West End show that you’ll promise you’ll go to together, despite the fact that you know from the expression, which Mycroft pulls that you’re going to have to drag him along to it and you both pretend that you haven’t got Sherlock anything, before you reveal that in fact you’ve got him some labels that he can use to help organize his work better and a large and ancient looking book on chemicals that he can use as a reference guide. He looks more pleased than you’d thought he might at the practical gifts. Sherlock gives his parents a stay in a posh hotel in London that they can use when they come and see the show and Mycroft a book on relationships. 

 

“Thought you might be able to use it now.” He shrugs. Mycroft looks like he doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or exasperated with him. You feel rather amused about how Sherlock clearly wants your relationship with Mycroft to go well and how obvious that seems to be to everyone but Mycroft. 

 

Edwin and Violet give Sherlock a costly book voucher, so that he can expand on his studies further if he so wishes and Mycroft an appointment with a tailor-‘So you can look smart for F/N,’ Violet says. Suddenly you don’t know what to do. You just end up throwing your wrapped gift for Mycroft at him. He just about manages to catch it and holds it to his lap. He stares at you in amusement. 

 

“That’s just something small,” you tell him a little anxiously, hoping that it’ll be enough and that he’ll appreciate it. 

 

“F/N’s got you something else, but she’ll give it to you later,” Violet says wisely and you shoot her a thankful look. Sherlock pulls a face now. Violet swats him. “Sherlock Holmes, obviously your mind is a lot dirtier than I’d taken it for”-you all laugh now, but Mycroft looks at his brother intently for a moment-“It’s not that, that I meant. Though you can still do that if you want to dear.” She turns to you. The laughter dies down. 

 

Mycroft decides that, that’s a very good time to open his gift, so he does so, revealing a silver watch with a blue background on its clock face. It looks very stylish and knowing that some considerable expense had gone towards it he looks at you chidingly for a moment, but then you twist the watch around, so that he can see what has been carved onto the underside of the clock face. He hums as you point at it. At the top there are his initials and underneath a singular date from October last year. “The day you asked me to work for you.” You feel a little embarrassed saying this in front of everyone, but you plough on regardless. “I just wanted to thank you, for giving me that chance like you did and I”-you’re self-conscious now and Mycroft stares at you deeply, which doesn’t help matters-“I just wanted, if you ever feel lost or like you can’t do something to be able to look at that date and remember what you’ve been able to do, what you’ve _done_ for me.” Mycroft doesn’t know what to say now. Your praise is too much for him. He just stares at you. You look away, hoping still that it was the right gift and that Mycroft doesn’t think you’re being overly sentimental or taking things a step too far by giving it to him. 

 

“Very thoughtful of you dear,” Violet says approvingly now when her son can’t seem to open his mouth. _“Mycroft?”_ she prompts. 

 

“I-thank you F/N,” Mycroft gets out, not even looking at you, but the way in which he squeezes at your hand tells you that you’d made the right decision. You let out a breath in relief. 

 

*

 

After Christmas lunch in which crackers are pulled, paper hats worn jauntily, wine drunk and far too much turkey is consumed for one’s health Violet sends Mycroft and you outside with instructions that you’re to go up the small hill that’s just further to the left of the property.

 

In a state of confusion at his mother’s wishes Mycroft says as you begin to walk there, “The gift you gave me I-I think that I failed to express just how much I liked it earlier.” In fact he is currently wearing it. 

 

“It’s fine,” you murmur, knowing that he doesn’t like to talk about things like that and swinging your hands a little as you walk. 

 

“Do you know that this time last year I was feeling pretty miserable?” He seems determined to try and talk about such things anyway and you wonder for a moment if he’s already been sneaking a peek in the book that Sherlock gave him. The thought of him doing so makes you feel amused. 

 

“I was too,” you confirm, remembering the Christmas party at work and how disastrously that had gone. This year’s had been much better. It makes you grin to remember it now. 

 

“But this year”- Despite the fact that Mycroft keeps looking at you he doesn’t seem to be able to do so for more than a second at a time. 

 

“Has been good again,” you finish. 

 

“Yes. Yes it has, hasn’t it?” Mycroft looks more relieved now. 

 

You both come to the top of the hill and let out a faint gasp. Fairy lights have been strewn around some of the trees and a picnic blanket has been spread out with a selection of cold, sweet puddings. The highlight of them all is a Gingerbread Office, rather than something more traditional like a house. A figure of you sits at a desk by a computer and Mycroft is standing by you, arms folded and almost leaning against the desk, as he talks to you. It comes to you then, as you re-live all those memories, but the good ones this time and not the bad-the ones where you’d talked about foreign policy together and so much more, joked and teased-“This is what Max meant wasn’t it?” Mycroft looks at you now in a puzzled fashion. “When he kept telling me to lighten up and not take things so seriously and we both thought that he was being annoying, but he meant to appreciate it all.” Mycroft’s face softens now. You turn to him and swallow. “I-I wanted to do something special for you. Something that would properly go some way towards thanking you, or at least recognizing everything that you’ve done for me, so I told Violet and she”-

 

“She really came through, and I think you’re right. This is exactly what Max meant.” You nod. “But you came through too,” he says in a low growl now, before you can even begin to doubt yourself and as he pulls you into a kiss Mummy takes a photograph of the moment for posterity from her place as a lookout at the cottage. The valley and the future, which is suddenly not so scary a place any more, stretch out before you.


End file.
